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HHTLION HEiB- S-= ASAPH. THE BESmZUCE OF M»= HEMAilS 



PUBMSHBD 151 



'•- IPHBLAllElLTPMIAo : 



THE 



M 



POETICAL WORKS 




^ 



4>->. 



OP q/ ;="-^ 



. FELICIA HEMANS; 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



NEW EDITION, 



A CKITICAL PREFACE, AND A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1857. 










Entered according to the act of Cungress, in the year 1835, by Grigg 
& Elliot, in the clerk's office of the district court of the eastern district 
of Pennsylvania. 



Gift 
Mrs, Opa! Logan Kunz 
July 27, 1933 



eontrntfii. 



1 U Forest Sanctuiry, 



Page. 
• 1 



LAVS OF MAW LANPa 

Moorish Briilal Song, "4 

The Uiril'3 Release, "'• 

The Sword of the Tomb,— A Noilhcm Legcn J, • 25 

Valkyriur Song. ' ' ^ 

The Cavern of tho Three Tells,— Swiss Tradition, 27 
Swiss Song,— on the Anniversary of an Ancient BalUe, 2^ 

The Messenger-Bird, '*' 

Tl\e Stranger in I/juisiana, 29 

The Idle of Founts,— an Indian Tradition, • • i'>- 

Tlie Bended Bow, 30 

He never smiled aij.iin, p' 

CiEur-de-Lion at tne Bier of liis Father, • • • il> 

The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree, • • 32 

The Wild UuntsiTian, 33 

Brandenburgh Harvest Song,— from the German of 

la Moite Fouqu6, '•'■ 

The Shade of Tlieseus,— Ancient Greek Tradition, 31 

Ancient Greek Song of Exile, ... - lb. 

Greek Funeral Chant or Myriologue, • • • ib. 

The Paning Song, 36 

The Suliote Mother, 37 

The Farewell to the Dead, 38 

The Siege of Valencia, • 39 

Tlie Vcsiiers of Palermo, 68 

The League of tlie Alps, ..-•.• 99 

The Restoration of the Works of Alt to Italy, • 103 

TA1.E.S AXD ULSTORIC SCENES. 

The Abencerrage, • - • • 1(M 

The Widow of Crescentius, • - • 127 

The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra, • • 135 

Alaric in Italy, 137 

The Wife of Afdrubal, 139 

Heliodorus in the Temple, 140 

Night Scene in Genoa, 141 

The Troubadour and Richard Cceurde-Lion, • 143 
The Death cf Conradin, . . • • • 145 

The Sceptic, '^^ 

Stan/as to the Memory of the late King, • • • '151 

Modem Greece, 146 

Dartmoor, 172 

The Meeting of Wallace and Bruce on the Banks of the 

Carron, - 176 

rhe Last Constantine, 179 

5REEK SONGS. 

L The Stnrm of Delphi, IM 

II. The Bowl of Liberty, 195 

in. The Voice of Scio, lb. 

IV. The Spartan's March, 196 

V. Tlie I'rn and Sword, ib. 

VI The Mynlc-Bougli, ib. 



SONGS OF THE CID. 

Tlie ("id's Dciiarture Into Exile, 
Tlie Cid's Dealh-Bed, 
The Cid's Funeral Proccaslon, 
Tlie Cid's Rising, • 



RECORDS OF WOMiN. 

Arabella Stuart, ... 
The Bride of the Greek Isle, • 
The Swiizer'a Wife, 
Pi-operzia Roesi, ... 
Genrude, or Fidelity till Death, 

Inielda, 

Editli, a Tale of tlie Woods, 
The Indian City, 
The Peasant Girl of the Rhone^ 
Indian Woman's Death Song, 
Juin of Arc, in Rheims, 
Pauline, . . . • • 
Jiiana, . . . • • 
The American Forest Girl, 
Coztanza, .... 
Madeline, a Domestic Tale, 
The Queen of Prussia's Tomb, 
The Memorial Pillar, 
The Grave of a Poctessi 



SONGS OF ■niE AFFECTIONS. 
A Spirit's Return, ^T^ ... 
The Lady of Provence, ... 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro^ . 
Italian Girl's Hymn to Uie Virgin, 
To a Departed Spirit, 
The Chamois Hunter's Love, 
The Indian with his Dead Child, 
Song of Emigration, .... 
The King of Arragon's Lament for hia Brotlier, 

Tlie Return, 

The Vaudois' Wife, .... 

The Guerilla Leader's Vow, . 
Thekla at her Lover's Grave, ... 
The Sisters of Scio, •• • • 

Bernardo Del Carpio, ... 

The Tomb of Madame I.Anghat'.^ 

The Exile's Dirge, 

The Dreaming Child, . . . • 
The CI armed Picture, .... 

Paning Words, - - _ .... 

The ^f 3ssage to the Dead, ... 
The Two Homes, .... 

The Soldier's Deathbed, .... 

The Image in the Heart, 

The Land of Dreanxs, .... 

Woman on the Field of Battle, • 

The Deserted House, .... 

The Stranger's Heail, • 

Come Hinne, ...... 

The FouiiUiin of Oblivion, . . • 

HYIMNS ON THE WORKS OF NA'nTlE. 

Introductory Verses, 

(5) 



Page. 
. iU. 



aoo 

203 

206 

ai)7 
aie 

2)9 
•211 
213 
215 
■ 216 
217 
213 
219 
220 
221 
223 
224 
225 
ib. 



227 

229 

.2:11 

232 

^'^33 

Ib. 

• 234. 

235 

ib. 

236 

ib. 

237 

. 239 

ib. 

■ 239 
240 

ib. 
211 

ib. 
»2 

lb. 
243 

ibw 
214 
2ia 

ib, 

■ aif. 

2i. 
r_ 

!■< 



CONTENTS. 



The Rainbow, 

TlieSun, 

Tlie Rivers, 

The Stars, ........ 

The Ocean, ....... 

The Thunder Storm, 

The Kinla, 

The Skyl.ark, 

The Nightingale, 

The Nurthcrn .Spring, 

Paraphrase of Psalm crlviii. 

To one of the Author's Children on Iiiij IVmh-day, 

To a Younger Child on a similar occjision, 



Pa^e. 
2!9 



ib. 
25() 

ib. 
2.-1 

ib. 

il>. 
2.V2 

ib. 

ib. 
20:j 



rR.VXSL.\TIOXS FROM C.\MOENS AND OTHER 
POLTS. 

Va^noene. IIi;h in the clowin; heavens, 

Wrapt in sad inu-sin^s by Euphrates' 
If in thy glorious home alxDvc, 
This mountain-Kene, with sylvan • 
Tliosc eyes, whence love ditHLscd • 
FairTajo! thcui, who«! calmly 
Thou, to whose power my hopc.i, 
Spirit beloved ! whose win » so .=oon 
How strange a fate in love is mine ! 
!?h lUld I/)vc, the lyniril of my 
Oft have 1 sun'^ and mourned • 
Slaved from the pcriKs of the stormy 
Hr.;ide the stnanw of B.ibylon, 
There blooms a plant, whose gaze, . 
Amidst the biiier tears that fell 
lie who proclaims that I^vc is light • 
Waves of Momlfgo! brilliant and 
Where shall I find some desert 
Exempt from every griel^ 't was 
No sc;u:ehing eye can pierce the veil 
Mfl'i-^tasio. In tears, the heart oppressed with - 

Filicaja. Italia! thou, by lavish Nature srared 

Piistorint. If thus thy fallen grandeur I bi:hold 

Lope tie Tf^a. Let the vain courtier waste his days 



Mumiel 
Delta Cnan. 
Benlivo^lio. 
Jihtustasio. 



Querrdo. 



Pause not with lingering foot, 
The.sc marble domes, by wealth 
The sainted .spirit, which from bliss 
lie shall not dread Misfortune's 
The torrent wave, that breaks . 
Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage • 
Forainc! why thus, whale'er my 
Would.st thou to Love of danger . 
I'ntiendiiig 'miilst the wintry skies . 
Oh ! those alone, whose severed • 
Ah! cease — those fruitless tears 
Amidst these scenes, O pilgiim, . 
Juan tic Tarsi's. Thou, who hi.st fled from life's - 
Tiininnto Tasso. Thou, in thy morn wert like 
Bernanlo Tasso. This green recess, where through . 
Petrardi. Thou that woiiUlst mark, in form 
If to tlio sighing breeze of summer 
Bcnho. TlioM, the stern monarcli of dismay 
Loienzini. S\ Iph of ihe breeze! who.se dewy 
Gesstier. Hail ! niorniiig sun, thus early 
^Gcrmnn Song.) Listen, fair maid, my song shall tell 
Vhaulimi. Thou groi, whence Hows this limpid 
Gmcilaso de la Eniny the sweets of life's !u.xuriatit 
Vega. May 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Treasures of the Deep, .... 

Bring I'lowcrs, 

The Cru.'Kider's Return, 



ib. 

il). 

ib. 
25-1 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

il). 
05-, 

ib. 
ilj. 
ib. 
ib. 
200 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
237 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
il>. 
2.J5 
il). 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
259 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
il,. 
ib. 
2ii() 
ib. 
ib. 
il). 
il). 
ib. 
2GI 
ib. 
lb. 
ib. 

ib 



2f.2' 

ib. I 



Thekla's Pong, or. The Voice of a Spirit,— from the 

Oorman of Schiller, 

The Reveller:', -.....- 
The Conqueror's Sleep, ..... 

Our Lady's Well, 

Ely.'^ium, ....... 

The Funeral (ienius,— an Ancient Statue, - 
Dirge of a Child, ... ... 

England's Dead, 

To the Memory of Ilisliop Iluber, . 

Th3 Hiurof Prayer, 

The Voice of .-Spring, 

Tlie Lauding of the Pilgrim Fathers, 

The Hebrew Mother, . . . . 

Tlie Child and Dove, 

The Child's l.a.st Sleep, .... 

The Lady of the Castle, 

To tlie Ivy, 

On a I/^af from the Tomb of Virgil, . 

For a Dosi-rn of a Uutterlly resting on a Skull 

The Lost I'Iciail, 

The Sleeper on Marathon, .... 
Troubid )'.u' Song, ...... 

The Tnniiivt, 

TheOyinL' Mu-d'sPrapb.ccy, .... 

Til-- \Va.(l;, - - - ' - 

A VoyaL""r's Dream of L.ind, .... 

The Crave ofKoriK-r, 

The Omv.-snfa Household, .... 

T!ie L-isi Wish, 

A Monarch'.s Dealh-llcd, 

The HourofDe.uh, 

The Release of Titsso, 

Tasso and liis Sister, ..... 

To the Port Worilsworth, 

The Song of the Curfew, .... 

Hymn for Christmas, 

Christ Stilling the Tempest, .... 

Christ's .\-gony in the Garden, .... 

The Sunbeam, 

TheTravilIrr at the Source of the Nile, . 

Tlie Vaud.iis Valleys, 

The Son^s of our Father.'', ^ . . . . 

The Ourial of William the Conqueror, - 

The Sound of the .Sea, ..... 

Casabiiinca, ... .... 

The Adoptf-d Child, 

The Dopuriod, 

The Breeze from Land, 

An Hour of Romance, ..... 

Evening Pniyer at a Girls' School, 

The Invocation, 

Lines Written in a Hennitago on the Seashore, 

The Death-day of Korner, 

Invocation, 

To the Memory of Ooner.al Sir E— d P— k— m. 

To the Memory of Sir H — y E— II — s, who fell in 
Rattle of Waterloo, 

Ouerilla Song, 

The .-Vged Indian, 

Evening amonssi the. \lp.% .... 

Dirge ofihe Highland Chief in "Waverlov," - 

Thef:rus,-,d<-r's\V,ir Sonu, .... 

The Death of Clanronald, .... 

To th-! Eye, .... . . 

The Hero's Death, ... 

StanAis n:i the Death of the Princess Chai'lott^ 

HelshHzzar's Feast, 

The Chieftain's Son, .... 



Pago. 



2<;3 

264 

ib. 
2C3 

ib. 
206 
267 

ib. 
269 

ib. 

ib. 
209 
270 
271 

ib. 

ib. 
070 

273 

ib. 
•!). 
274 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 



the 



ib. 
270 
277 

ib. 
273 

ib. 
279 
2S0 
2S1 
2?2 

ib 

ib 
283 

iU 

ib 
2^4 
255 

ib. 
286 

ib. 
287 

ib. 
283 

ib. 
2$9 

ib. 
290 

ib. 

ib 
291 

ib. 
292 

ib. 

ib. 
2'.'3 

ib. 

ib. 
2(»4 

ib. 

ib 
297 
299 



Page. 

Th« Tombt of Platwi. - - - - - - i2a9 

The View from Cutri, ....-- ib. 

The Fc«ial Hour, - - - - • - - 300 

BoDi of Ihe DalUe of Morgarteo. - - - 301 
Chorus, translated from Manzoni't " Conte di Car- 

magnohi," --------- 303 

Tho Meetins of the Bards. - - - - • 3(M 

Tlic Homes of England. ...-.- yo5 

The Sicilian Captive, .-.---- ib. 

Ivan the Czar, .-...--- 307 
Carolan'8 Prophecy, .-.-•-•308 

The Jlourncr for the Barmecides. . - - - 3(i9 

The Spanish Chapel. - 310 

The Captive Knight, ....-.-311 

The Kaisers' Feast, . - - - - • ib. 

Ulla, or The Adjuration. --.-.- 312 

TheEfligie-, 313 

The Spirits' Mystcric*, ....-- ib. 

Tho Palm Tree. . . - - . . - 3)4 

Broalhings of Spring, • - - . - . ib. 

The Illuminated City, - - - - - - - 315 

The Spells of Homo, - ib. 

Roman Girl's Song, ....... 31C 

The Distant Ship, ....... jb 

The Birds of Passage, 317 

Mozart's Requiem. .--.... jb. 

The Imago in Lava. 31" 

Fairy Favours, -----.-. ib. 

A Parting Song, 319 

The Bridal Day, ib. 

The Ancestral Song, -- 320 

The Magic Glass, 321 

Corinne at the Capitol, ....... 322 

Tho Ruin, ib. 

The .Minster, 323 

The Song of Night. ib. 

The Storm Painter in his Dungeoa. - - - - 324 

Death and the Warrior, .-•-•• 3i'> 

The Two Vuices. ib. 

The Parting Ship. 32C 

The Last Trco of the Forest. ib. 

The Streams, 327 

The Voice of Ihe Wind. 328 

The Vigil of Arms, ....... jb. 

The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey, ... 329 

Nature's Farewell. ....... jb. 

Tho Beings of the Mind. 3;!0 

The Lyre's Lament, ....... 331 

Tasso's Corontlion, ....... jb. 

The Belter Land, 332 

"I'he Wounded Eagle. - - ib. 

Sadness and Mirth, ...... jb. 

The Nightingale's Death-Song - - - - -333 

The Diver, ib. 

The Rcauiem of Genius, -..-.. 334 

Triumphant Music, --..... 3:j.5 

Second Sight, ib. 

The Sca-Bird Flying Inward, ib. 

The SCT,-per, ----SliC 

The Mirror ir» ihe Deserted Ilall. .... jb. 

Ilynin of the Mountain Christian, .... 3;)7 

Church Music, --.--... jb. 

To a Picture of Madonna, ------ ib. 

We Return no More, - - - . . . 338 

Song, . - - ib. 

The Parting of Summer, ....-- ;tj<j 

"I'he World in tho Open Air, - . . - - ib. 

Kindred Hearts. -..-.... 340 
The Dial of Flowers, --.....il. 

Our Daily Paths, . - - . . . ji,. 



Pace. 

Tho Cross in the Wilderness, ..... 341 
Last Rites, - 312 

Tho Clifls of Dover, - - ib. 

The Voice of Homo to the Prodigal, - - • 343 
Tho Wakening, --.----•ib. 
The Dying Improvisatorc, ..... 344 

Music of Yesterday, .......jb. 

The Forsaken HearUi, 34.n 

Tho Dreamer, -.-•---- ib. 

Tho Wings of the Dove, ------ 346 

Psycho borne by Zephyrs to tho Island of Pleasure, - ib 
The Boon of Memory, ...... 347 

Tho Grave of Martyrs, ------- ib. 

Dreams of Heaven, -----.. 34jj 

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 

The English Martyrs, 340 

Flowers and .Music id a Room of Sickness, - • 352 

Cathedral Hymn, ........ 354 

Wood Walk and Hymn, ...... Sil 

Prayer of the Lonely Student, . . - . . 357 

Tho Traveller's Evening Song, - . . - \^ 

Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Forests, • 35S 

Easter Day in a Mountain Church- Yard, - - 3t;0 

The Child Reading the Bible, ----- 3C1 

A Poet's Dying Hymn, - - - - . - 3<J2 

The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott, - - - :(C3 

The Prayer in tlie Wdderncsfl, - - - . . 3f,4 

Prisoners' Evening Service, • - - » - ib. 

Prayer at Sea after Victory, - . . . . 3(i0 

Evening Song of the Weary, - - - - • ib. 

The Indian's Revenge, ..... 3G7 

The Day of Flowers, 369 

Hymn of tlie Traveller's Household on his Rolum, 370 

A Prayer of Affection, ...... 371 

The Painter's Last Work, ------ ib. 

Mother's Litany by the Sick-Bed of a Child, • 372 

Night Hymn at Sea, ....... 3rj 

Female Characters of Scripture : A Scries ofSonncts, ib. 
Invocation, -- •- ----ib. 

The Song of Miriam, ..... jb. 

Ruth, ib. 

The Vigil of Rizpah, 374 

The Rejily of the Shunamite Woman, - - ib. 

The Annunciation, ...... jb. 

The Song of the Virgin, ib. 

The Penitent Anointing Christ's Feet, • - ib. 

Mary at the Feet of Christ, ----- ib. 

The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazaruit, ib. 

The Memorial of Mary, ----- 375 

The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross, - • ib. 
Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre, - - - ib 
Mary Magdalene bearing tidings of the Resurrec- 
tion, -------- ib. 

Tho two Monuments, .--... ib. 

The Memory of the D.ad, 378 

Angel Visits, ----.... jb 

A Penitent's Return, --...-- 377 

A Thought of Paradise, ------ 378 

Let us Depart, .-...-..jb 

On a Picture of Christ bearing the Cross. - 379 

Communings with Thought, .... jb 

Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial, - - 3^ 

The Sacred Harp, ------ ib. 

To a Family Hiblo, ib 

Repose of a Holy Family, . - . . ib 

Picture of tho Infant Christ with Flowers, - ib 

On a Remembered Picture of Christ, - - ib. 

The Children whom Jesus blest, - • • ib 

Mountain Sanctuaries, . . - . . 3WJ 



CONTENTS. 



The Lilie* of the Field, ... 

The nirilt of tlie Air. - - 

The Knisinx (if ihc Widow's Sou, - 

The Oiivo True, .... 

Tlie IJarknuus of the C'riicifixion, 

Pla'Ci of Worohip, ... 

OitJ Church in an Eneliah Park, 

A C'hun-h in North Wales, 

l.Duifie Schepler, - . . . . 

To tho Same, ..... 

The Palmer, 

lAiici to a ItulterQy rcstini; on a Skull, 
The Wttter-Lily, 



Paifc. 
38) 

- ib. 
ib. 

- il.. 
• ib. 

- ib. 
382 

- ib. 
ib. 

. ih. 
ib. 

- 3tfl 
ib. 



Thou^'ht from an Italian Poet, ..... j), 

Clirist Wiilkinc on Ihc Water, .... jf,. 

A Fathfr Reiidine the Bible, . . - . 384 

The Chiid'B Firm Grief, ib. 

Epitaph over tlio Grave of two Brothora, a Child and 

a Youih, •-....... il,. 

Hymn by the Sick Bed of a Mother, - - - 385 
A Dirge, ... ......ii,. 

NATIONAL LYRICS. AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

Introductory SianziB : — the Thcmci! of Son?, - 385 

Rhine Sung of the German Soldiers after Victory, . ib. 

A Son;; of Delos, ..3SC 

Ancie.il Greek Chant of Victory, .... 387 

The Heath S.«ns of Alccslia, - . - . • ib. 

TheFallof D'Assas, ....... 3SH 

Naples : — a Song of the Syren, . - - . ib. 

Chorus, translated from the Alceelia of Alfiori, - . 3!?.l 

Near Thee. Still neat Thee, - - . . . it, 

The Sislera, ib 

Oh ! Droop Thou Not ! - - - - - 3iJ0 

Mignim'8 Sons; — Translated from Goethe, . . 391 

The Lael Song of Sappho, ..... jb. 

Diriro. 31)2 

A Sons of the Rose, --.--.. it. 

■ Niuht Blowing Floweri, - - - - . - 303 

" The Wanderer and the Night Flowers, - - . ib. 

Echo S mu', ib. 

The MulHud Drum. ili. 

• The Swan and the Sky-Lark, 394 

Soni-'s of Spain, ---..... ;ii)j 

Aiicitiit Buttle Song, ...... ji, 

The Zegri Maiil. ....... jb. 

The Kio Verde Son", . • - . . . ib, 

Si.'ck by the Silvery Darro, ..... jb, 

Spanish Evening Hymn, ..... 301 

Bird, that art Singing on Ebro's Side, • . ib. 

Moorish Gathering Song, - - - - - ib. 

TI:o Song of Mina'a Soldiers, .... ib. 

Mother. Oh ! Sing mo to Rest, - . . . ib 

There are Sounds in the Dark Ronccsvallcs, . ib 

The Curfew-Song of England, 3<t7 

The Call to Battle. ..... ib. 

Sunjis for Summer Iloure, .... 3(iri 

And I too in Arcadia, - - . . . ib. 

The Wandering Wind. ...... ib. 

Ye are not miss'd. Fair Flowers, ... ib. 

Willow Song. 39il 

Leave me Not Yet, .... ib. 

The Orange-Bough, ..... ib. 

Tlie Stream set Free, . • . - . ib. 

The Summer's Call, 400 

Oh ! Sky-Lark for thy Wing, .... ib. 
Ooniua Singing to Lovo, ...... ib 

rhe Bird at Sea, • - 401 

Music at a Death-Bed, ....... ib. 

Marshal Schwcrin's Grave, ..... 402 



Page. 
WTiere is the Sf a 7..--.- 403 

Sobgs of Cupiiviiy, .... . ib. 

Introduction. ...... ib 

Tlie Brotlier's Dirge, . ^ .... 403 

The Alpine Horn, ...... ib. 

ye Voices, -..-....ib. 

1 Dream of all Things Free, .... ijx 

Far o'er the Sea, .......ih. 

The Invocation, ....... 404 

The Song of Hope, - - . . . . ib. 

The Ivy Sons, ib. 

The Dying Girl and Flowers, - . - - . 405 
The Music of St. Patrick's. ..... ib. 

Kccne.or Lamentofan Irish Mollief over hot Son, ib 
The Angel's Call, .--.....40G 

The Spell, . . ....... jb. 

Far Away, .........ib. 

The Lyre and Flower, ...... 407 

Sister ! Since I met Thee Last, ib 

The Lonely Bird, ....... ib. 

' EHrge at Sea, -.-......ib. 

Pilgrim's Song to the Evening Star, . . . 4O8 
The Spartan's March. .......ib 

The Meeting of the Ships, ..... ib 

The Rock of Cader Idris, ...... 409 

• A Farewell to Wales, ...... ib 

Come .\way. .........ib. 

Mu>ic from Shore, ....... 410 

Fair Ellen of Kirconnel, ...... ib 

Look on inc with thy cloudless Eyes, • . - ib 

I G,). Sweet Friends, ib 

If Thou hast crushed a Flower, . • .411 

Hrisliily hast tlioii Bed, -...-..ib 
Sing to me. Gondolier, ---... ib. 
O'er the Far Blue Mountains, ..... ib. 

Thou Breeze of Spring, - . . . ib. 
Come to inc. Droanis of Heaven, .... 412 

Good Night, ........ ib. 

I-et Her Depart, ...... .ib. 

1 would we had not met again, - . . . ib 
^Vater-Lilics. ---...... 413 

The Broken Flower, - - - . . . ib. 

Fairies' Recall, ib 

r.y a Mountain Stream at Rest, .... ib. 

The Rock beside the Sea, - - - . - ib. 

O ye Voices gone, ....... 414 

la there some Spirit sij-'hing. --.... ib. 

The Name of England. ...... ib. 

Old Norway. - ---.-.-.ih. 

Come to me. Gentle Sleep. - . . • 415 

English Soldier's Song of Memory, - . . • ib. 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Homo of Love, ....... 415 

Books and Flowers, .......4]() 

The Faiih of Love, ib. 

For n Picture of St. Cecilia attended by Angela, . 417 
The Voice of the Waves, • ..... jb. 
The Victor, .....^..418 

O'Connor's Child, . - ib. 

The Haunted House, -419 

The Brigand Leader and his Wife, . . • • ib 
The Child's Return from the Woodlandto, - - 420 
The Sister's Dream, - - . . . • ib. 

Written after Visiting a Tomb, . - • 421 

Prologue to the Tragedy of Fieaco, - - - • ik. 

A Farewell to Abbolsford. 42i 

Scene in 11 Dalecarlian Mine, . - - ib. 

A Tliouglit of tho Future. ..... 423 

A Thought of Home, at Sea, ... ib 



CONTENTS. 



A Thought of the Rose, 
The Kill at Sea. - - - 
ThcCullaito Girl, - 
DcHth of an Infant, - 
Tho Subterranean Stream, 
The renitent'a Oficring, - 
Things tlial Change, 



Page. 

- 4Z) 
4-.M 

- ib. 
ib. 

- ib. 
425 

- ib. 



Hymn of the Vauduis Muuntaineers, in times of Per- 

Beculiun, ---.---•- ib. 

Fountain of Marnh, •-.--•- 40t) 

Evening Song of the Tytolesc Peasania, - - ib. 

Fragment, ......... 4-27 

The Image of the Dead, ------ ib. 

The Ivy of Kenilworlh, ------ ib. 

LifrhlB and Shades, -.----• 4-JS 

Monumental Inscription, ------ ib 

Korner and his Sister, ..--.- jb 

The Spells of Home. 4'i9 

The Fallen Limo-Troo, .----- ib. 

The Freed Bird, 4:t0 

Tlv I Meelins of the Brothers, ----- ib. 

Man and Woman, - - - - • - - 4'il 

Owen Glyndwyr's War-Song, ----- 432 

Swiss Home-Sickness, -•---•- ib. 

Tho Voice of God, - • .... - ib. 

Poetry of the Psalms, ------- 4.33 

The Wanderer, ---.---- ib. 

The Shepherd Poet of the Alps. - - - • ib. 

Phe Welcome to Death, ------ 435 

The Prayer for Life, ib. 

The Batile-Field, 436 

The Broken Lute, --..---- ib. 

The Recall, 437 

The Jlasquer's Song, ------- ib. 

Time's Song, i'-iS 

The Huguenot's Farewell, - - - . . - jlj. 

Sabbath Sonnet, -------- ib. 

The Childe's Dualiny, - - 439 

To the Memory of a Friend and Relative, - - ib. 

Woman and Fame, -..-... 4J0 

\Vashingtoii's Statue, ------ jb. 

Marguerite of France, ------- ib. 

Tho Silent Multitude, 411 

The Flower of the Desert, 442 

Tlie Cross of the South, - ib. 

The English Boy, 443 

Lines written for the .Mbura at Rosanna, in 1PQ9, - ib. 

Despondency and Aspiration, . . - . . 444 

Antique Greek Lament, ------ 445 

Records of the Spring of 1S34, 440 

A Vernal Thought, ------ ib. 

To the Sky, ----- ...jb. 

On watching (ho Flight of a Skylark, - - ib. 

On Records of Immature Genius, - - - ib. 

A Thought of tho Sea, ----- jb. 

Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening, - - - 447 

The River Clwyd in North Wales, - - - ib. 

Orchard Blossoms, ------- ib. 

To a distant Scene, .--.-. jb. 

Thoughts connected with Trees, - - - - ib. 

The same, ..-•-•-. jb. 

A Remembrance of Grasmcre, - - - - ib. 

On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood, - 448 

A Thought at Sunset, ---... jb. 

Images of Patriarchal Life, . . - . jb. 

Attraction of the East, ------ ib. 

To an Aged Friend, .---.. ji,. 

Foliage, ---..-.-.jb. 

A Prayer, -- -.--.. 449 

Prayer Continued, --.-... jb. 

Memorial of a Conversation, • - . jb. 

Recordsofthe Autumn of 1B34, ib. 

Tho Return to Poetry, - . . . . jj,. 

On reading Coleridge's Epitaph written by himself, ib. 



Pace. 

Dreams of the Dead, ------ 449 

Hope of Future CoinmuniuD with Nature, • - 450 

On the Diitura Arborea, . . - - . ib. 

On a Scene in the Darglo, ----- ib. 
Design and Performance, ----- ib. 

To Silvio Pellico on reading his "Prigione," - ib. 

To tho same. Released, .... - ib. 

The Procession, ..---.-- 451 
To the Blue Anemone, --.-.. ib. 
The Burial in the Desert, ------ 452 

The Maremma, -------- ib. 

Sebastian of Portugal;— A Dramatic Fragment, - 455 
Translations from Horace, - . . . . 4ii0 

To Venus, ib. 

To his Attendant, --..-, ib. 

To Uelius, ib 

To the Fountain of Bandusia, - - - - 401 

To Faunus, -------- jb. 

In Imitation of part of Odo HL Book IL, • - 4&i 
On the Hebe of Canova, ------ ib 

Ode on tho defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal, and 

his Army, in Africa. ..--.. ib. 
Fragments from the Iphigenia of Goethe, - - . 4G3 

Joy of Pylades on hearing his Native Language, ib. 

E.vclamation of Ipliiginia on seeing her Brother, ib. 

Lot of Man and WoM)an compared by Iphigenia, ib. 

Longing of Orestes for repose, - - . . 404 

Hark: in the triMnbling leaves, • - - - ib 
The Sculptured Children, on Chantrey's Monument 
in Lichfield Cathedral, ------ ib. 

The Voice of Music, - - - - - - - 46S 

• The Chieftain's Son, - . - . . - - ib. 
Passing away, -.-.---- jb 

Tlie Wish, 460 

Song for Air by Hummel, ------ ib. 

A Fragment, --------- ib. 

To a Wandering Female Singer, - . - - ib 
Song of the Spanish Wanderer, ----- 407 

No More, --..--,-- ib. 
I'o my own Portrait, ------- ib. 

The Broken Chain, ------- 403 

The Angler, ib. 

The Funeral Genius, an Antique Statue, - - ib. 

The Song of Penitence, 469 

A Talo of tho Fourteenth Century: A Fragment, • ib. 

The Bard's Farewell, - - 474 

^To tho Mountain Winds, ------ ib. 

Welsh Melodies, 475 

Druid Chorus on the landing of the Romans, - ib. 

The Sea-Song of Gavran, ----- ib. 

TheHallofCynddylan. ib. 

The Lament of Lly warcli Hen, - - - . 476 

Grufydd's Feast. ib. 

The Cambrian in America, - - . . 477 ' 

The Monarchy of Britain, - • - - • ib 

Taliosin's Prophecy, -..-.. jb. 

Prince Rladoc's Farewell, ----- ib. 

Caswallon's Triumph, . . - - - 473 

Howell's Song, ------- ib. 

The Mountain-Fires, ------ ib. 

Eryri Wen, --..-... 479 

Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Ed- 
ward L----..---ib 

The Green Isles of Ocean, - - • ib. 

The Hiilas Horn, ----- - -480 

The Fair Isle. ib. 

Song, founded on an Arabian Anecdote, - - - ib. 
Alp-Horn Song, translated from the German of Tieck, 4S1 
}Iaunted Ground, --.-.--. ib. 

The Child of the Forests, 482 

Stanzas to the Memory of * • • - - - - ib. 
The Coniadina -..--.., ib. 
On a Flower from tho Field of Grulli . - - 483 
The Star of the Mine, i!». 



10 



CONTENTS. 



Pago. 

Ti) the Daosliter of Bernard Barton, • • 463 

To an Orphan, - - - • - • ib. 

Hymn br the Sickbed of a Mother, - - - 484 

I'o a Rememtiorcd Picture, . - - • - ib. 

Ti> the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, - - ib. 

The Antique Sepulchre, •--•.. 495 

lie walk'd with God, -.---.- jb. 

The Rod of Aaron, -4(^6 

Impromptu Lines, addressed to Miss F. A. L. • ib. 

To the New- Born, - - - - - - • ib. 

Ei'itiiph, - --•-.-.. ib. 

To Giulio Regondi, lb. 

O ye Hours, .......i ib. 

To Caroline, -••- ..... 487 

The Bed of Heath, ..-..-- ib. 
Fairy Song, - --'. . - . . -ib. 

Oil ! if thou wilt not give Uiino Heart, ... ib. 

Look on me thus no more, - - - • • 488 

How can that Love so defp, so lone, - • ib. 

To Miss F. A. L. on her Birthday, - - - - ib. 

Written in the First Leaf of the Album of tho same, ib. 

To the same— on the Death of her Mother, - - ib. 

A Dirge, 489 

From the Italian of Garcilasso do la Vega, • - ib. 

From the Italian of Sannazaro, .... ib. 

Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage, . - - 400 
Appearance of the Spirit of the Cupo to Vasca de 

Gama, 401 

T!ic Caravan in the Dtserls, ..... 49-2 

Superstition and Revelation, ..... 4gn 

Scenes and Passages from the Tasso of Goethe, - 4ilG 

England and Spain : or, Valour and Patriotism, • 5U1 



Paia 

A Tale of the Secret Tribunal, 5M 

Italian Literature, -.....• SSt 
The Basvigliana of Monti, . . - - - ib. 

The Alcesiisof Alfiori, 581 

II Conto di Carmagnoia, by Manzoni, - - • S^ 
Caius Gracchus, by Monti, .... 531 

Putrioiic EtVu>ions of the Italian Poets, - - 534 
De Chatillon ; or, the Crusaders, - - - . . 5.'16 
Thoughts during Sickness, ...... 549 

Intclleclual Powers, ....... ib. 

•Sickness like Night, .....•• ib. 

On Rutzsch's Design of the Angel of Death, - • ib. 
Remembrance of Nature, ...... ib. 

Flight of tho Spirit, -..-.-- ib. 
Flowers, ..........ib 

Recovery, --....... 55# 

Selections from Juvenile Poems, ..... ib 

On my Mother's Birthday, ..... ib 

A Prayer, --.--....ib. 

Address to the Deity, .......551 

Sonnet to my Mother, .......ib. 

Sonnet, .--...... Jb 

Rural Walks, .-- -ibk 

Sonnet, --•-.....• ib 

To my Mother, 55!« 

To my Younger Brother, ... - • ib. 

To my Eldest Brother, 553 

Lines wriiien in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith, • ib. 

Tho Silver Locks, 5M 

The Ruin and its Flowers, ..... jb. 
Christmas Carol, -....-.- SSS 
The Domestic Aflectioni, .-.--- ib. 



PREFACE 



It has been said by a fine writer, that, 
ilthoiigrh genius is the heir of ftimc, the loss 
of lii'c is the conditicn on wiiich the brigiit 
reversion must be csrncd ; that fame is tiic 
recompense not of the hving, but of the 
dead, — its temple standing over iJic grave, 
and the flame of its altar kindled from the 
ashes of the great. There is trutli in the 
thought, as well as beauty in the cxi)ression 
of it, tliough, like most general remarks of 
the same description, it is open to both quali- 
fication and exception. It is true that fame 
is not popularity merely. It is rot the shout 
of the multitude. It is not 'the idle buzz 
of fashion, the venal puff, the soothing flat- 
tery of favour or of friendsiiip.' But is it 
alone, on tlic other hand, the spirit of a man 
surviving himself, as Ilazlitt describes it, in 
the minds and thoughts of other men? Or, 
as he splendidly represents it again, is it 
only ' the sound wiiich the stream of high 
thoughts, carried down to future ages, makes 
as it flows — deep, distant, murmuring ever- 
more like the waters of the mighty ocean?' 
This is fame, indeed. No reputation can be 
called such, tliat will not endure that test. 
Cut may it not begin also in the life of him 
that earns it ? May it not begin, and con- 
tinue, coincident with the mere popularity 
whieli is so often mistaken for itself, — as the 
immortal soul disdains not the envelope of 
pcrisliing huinanit)^ which it is destined so 
soon to leave, and to oHtlive so long ? May 
not the spirit of a man transfuse its influence 
into the spirits of other men, without the 
mythological transmigration which, accord- 
ing to this tlieor}', death implies ; — and tlie 
force of that influence be felt, and recognized, 
and acknowledged, — imperfectly and tardily 
we ndinit that it generally is, — ere yet the 
'swift decay' of hitn that so works for the 
ivorld, and for [losterity, shall quite release 
lini from his toils? It is truly a 'weary 
ife'— 

" A wasting task, anj lonn— " 
is tJKit of tlie diver, in Eastern Seas, for the 
efcm that, gleam as it may, 'a star to all the 
testive hall', — 



"—Not one 'midst tlirongrs will say, 
' A life has U'en. liki- a rain-dnip, shed. 
Fur lliai pale (inivering ray,' "* 

A weary life ! And Vvho will tliink, the 
mournful fancy adds, 

" When lljp strain is simR, 
Ti'l a thousand hearts an' stirr'd, 
Wlial life-dnHm, from lli;? inirwr.'l wruni 
Iluvo guah'd witli evi ry wurj ?" 

"Nonel none!— his Ircayurcs live like thine, 

y/t sirivis and dii-h like ihii-.— 
Thiiu that hast boon lo tlie pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with liie eca '." 

And this also is doubtless true, — tliat, 
weary and wasting as it is, — this diving for 
the gems of thought, — tiie world, that is to 
wear the rich results, does not and cannot 
appreciate, or but slowly and slightly at tlie 
best, the exhausting effort which it costs. 
That can be understood only by hiin who 
suffers it, and it is the province of the one 
party even to enjoy ' the price of the bitter 
tears' of the other. But it is enjoyed ; and 
that is fame. It is the influence of mind 
upon mind, independently of every personal 
consideration ; and that is fame, — however 
much those considerations, or some of them, 
were they known and feh, as they cannot be, 
might add to tlie interest of that iiifluenec, 
and even to its force. 

The best confirmation, melancholy though 
it be, of tlie truth of these remarks, is fur. 
nislicd by the ease of the gifted, aecomplish- 
ed, and amiable writer whose beautilul illus- 
tration of her ovi'n career — not to call it a 
prediction of her own destiny — we have 
borrowed, and whose works are now for tlic 
first time gathered togtther, in the following 
pages, we trust with something like a com- 
pleteness corresponding to the exertion which 
has been made by the Publisher, as well as 
to the merit and charm of the works them 
selves. The mere popularity of these 
poems, — their cotemporaneous noforict}', — 
and espeeiallyas indicated by the notiecof'tlie 
periodical press, — has Ix'cn perhaps entirciv 
unexampled in the histor)' of literature oi 
this description. Such at least was the re 



• Mrs. Ilomans's Divor. 



(11) 



12 



PREFACE. 



putation of the larger portion of them, all 
lior later productions included ; for it is true, 
ai critics have remarked, tiiat not only the 
delMit ^vllicil she made in a juvenile volume, 
it Liverpool, wliilc j'ct in her cliildhood, (a 
collection of little ctVusions written between 
the ajjos of ci;,'ht and tliirtccn, to which she, 
who ii;id tlie rif^ht of decision, did not her- 
«tlf Kubsetincntly clioosc to pive a place 
ftniongf her mature * works',) but even tlie 
much more elaborate comix)sitions of many 
Buececdlngf years, including the Restoration 
of the Works of Art to Italy, (publis)ied in 
1817,) and otlier jxx?nis studded as richly 
with brilhimt passages, did not have the ef- 
fect to establish her reputation. In fact, tiie 
Records of Woman, wliich appeared only 
some eight years since, may be considered 
as having fairly laid its foundations. From 
that time, iiowevcr, as we have said, the fa- 
vour her poems met with was uncxamjiled. 
But wlio will pretend that it was no more 
tlian Mavour ;' that it was but a transient air 
of popular wiiiin which sustained them, but 
gave no test nor pledge of an inherent and 
enduring buoyancy 7 Who will deny that 
INIrs. Ilemans has enjoyed — or, if we use 
the term wliicli is ajiplicable to tlic personal 
effort and elllet, that she has suffered, — in 
her own lile-timc, a true fame, — even the 
truest, dearest, best, of all its si>eeies, — thougli 
only as the dim beginning of the brightness 
whieii awaits her name ? Even the extra- 
ordinary newspaper popularity (so to si>eak) 
of her later writings, is itself an indication, 
on the whole, of the fact. It shows the feel- 
ing of the people, wliieli dictates the fashion 
of tlie press ; and although there are many 
of the works of genius which may largely 
attract the attention and admiration of the 
world, for a time, and for various and obvious 
r(!asou.<, without leaving their vinrk on t!ic 
minds or hearts of men, others tliere are, 
possessed of a vital spirit, th^, once ap- 
preciated, they will not ' willingly let die.' 
The notoriety of such an author, as an 
author, is equivalent to his fume. It is as 
true of virtue, cs{)eeially, as of vice, that it 
' needs but to he seen ;' and although that 
conventional corporation wliicli has the 
name of 'tlie public,' merely, are not seldom 
deceived by false pretences, and dazzled by 
brilliant shows, the world at large is wiser 
jian the public, (as much as it is wiser than 
aiiy individual,) and will sec. It will feel, 
too ; and acknowledge what it feels. It will 



acknowledge it, not in the columns of tin 
newspapers, to be sure, alone — though these 
certainly have their part to play — but aa 
Scott's was acknowledged, when a traveller 
states that he found, in the remotest regions 
of Hungary, a volume of one of his delight 
ful romances in a peasant's cabin ; as 'J'iiom 
son's was, when a shabby, soiled copy of ' Thi 
Seasons' was noticed, by a man of genius, 
lying on the table of an obscure alehouse, 
in England. ' That,' said he, ' is true 
fame 1' And it was, and is so. Such is tJ;a 
fame of the Vicar of Wakefield, and John 
Gilj)in, and tlie Pilgrim, and jKwr Robinson 
Crusoe, and tlie C^jtter's Saturday Night 
It is seen not in the diamond editions thai 
glitter on the centre-tables of genteel society, 
or crowd, with everything else, the biblio- 
pole's multifarious collections of rari/ics; but 
the ragged volumes of every circulating li. 
brary, grown old and illegible before their 
time by dint of reading — and the thumb- 
ed copies that lie on the window-ledge of 
the i>oor man's cottage, wit'i the leaves turn- 
ed down by the good woman to ' keep the 
place' — and the song, or the ode, which the 
milk-maid trolls on the hill-side, or a band 
of freemen (like the descendants of the Ply. 
mouth Pilgrims) adopt for the festal com- 
memoration of their fathers' glory, — these 
are the quick pulses that prove the existence 
of an author in his fame. Such has been 
already the success of INIrs. Ilcinans. She 
addressed herself not to passion, or fashion, 
or the public, or any class of the communitj 
or country she lived in, but to human beings, 
as such, — to their hearts, as well as their 
heads — with truth's transparent and glowing 
passport in her hand ; — and it was an intro 
duetion that never yet failed to be eflectual, 
nor ever will. Fashion will pass awa)', and 
passion .subside in satiety ; and tlie frivclou 
industry that niinistered to the gratitication 
of tlie one, and the false excitement that led 
the other to its own destruction, will be de- 
sjiised first, and then Ibrgotten ; but man :c. 
mains the same, from first to last ; and truth 
which also remains, is mighty, and, worthily 
interpreted, must prevail. How long it may 
be in making its way, dcix;nds upon the cir- 
cumstances of each particular case. It may 
address the head, or the heart, or both. It 
may be more or less a matter of necessity 
or of luxury alone. It may be left to the 
recommendation only of its own niodcsi. 
merit, or be drawn into notice by fortunate 



PREFACE. 



13 



crises, or casuaJ accompaniments, well adapt- 
ed to excite a seasonable sympathy as it were 
at the mere sight of its features, or the sound 
of its name, while its absolute character is 
yet unknown. Mcanwljile 

" The eiiul wkrncn thc^e high gif\d are elHsd, 
May taint in rsuliludo," 

exliaustfd by these same efforts, or borne 
down by circumstances whicli have little or 
Qo connexion witli tlieni ; or it may thrive 
s tlie young tree that leans over running 
Waters, and grow stronger as it gives more 
fruit, till it lives to feci, in tlie airs that reach 
it from many a far-off sliorc, tlic joy of its 
own blossomy breatli returned to it, and to 
hear the blessing of tiie poor pilgrim who 
has paused in the dust of the way-side of a 
weary life, and tlic scliool-glrrs glee, and 
tlic child's murmur of sweet delight, as they 
turn down from the heat of tlie day, to be 
rcfrcslvcd and rejoice together in the gloom 
of Its groen repose. 

So, we say, has it been already, and so, 
we venture to predict, it will be still, witli 
much of the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. Siie 
strove to be the worthy interpreter of worthy 
trutli, deeply concerning the happiness of her 
race ; and tlie vitiU spirit of virtue has in- 
spired her to be equal to the task. This is 
her praise ; and it is praise enough ; not 
that she has spent her strength in the rearing 
of dazzling fabrics of fancy, as brilliant and 
as useless as the ice-palaces of the nortliern 
Queen ; not tJiat she has chosen to indulge 
the impulse of a wayward temperament in 
the reckless expression of feeling without 
principle, and of sentiment without point; 
not tliat slic has dealt ordy in the cold oracles 
of a selfish philosophy, more thoughtful of 
truth, and of proo^ than of the use of either 
in the wants of the world ; not that she has 
indulged unholy passion -in her own breast, 
or the breast of any living creature ; not 
tliat she has dared to exaggerate, that at all 
events she might astonish, or deigned to be 
mean, in the miserable liope of amusing. 
No I She has neither failed to feel tlic high 
dignity of her profession, nor forgotten to 
observe it. She has made no vain display 
of genius faithless to its trust. She has cul- 
tivated self as the means, not consulted it as 
the end. She has been ambitious less to 
gain honour, than to give pleasure, and do 
good. She has not assumed to assert what 
is doubtful, or to deny what is not. She has 
•>ot dogmatized, criticized, or tlicorizcd. 



She has not s|)cculuted. She has not trifled. 
She has not flattered, nor inflamed. But slio 
did strive to ennoble virtue ; to encourage ex 
ertion; to sustain hope; to increase the happi- 
ness of nu'ii, by increasing their capacity to be 
happy, and developing tlieir taste tor wliat ts 
deservingof [Hirsuit. She strove, in a word, as 
we began witli saying, to be the wortliy inter- 
preter of wortliy truth. And she was so. 

This, we say, is her praise ; and it is the 
greater for its rarity. There ha.s been too 
mucii among us of extra Viigant excitement,^ 
even from the luastcr-iniiids of the times, — 
as if tliere were no wa^^ of avoiding tlic cold 
gorgcousness of the nu re phantasmagoria 
of fancy, or the idle in-^ipidity of a soulless 
sentiinentalit:in, or any (/llier of tiio deficient 
styles of the day, but by lusliing headlong 
to the opiX)site extreme. Mrs. Hemans has 
taken the reasonable me<lium, which her na- 
tive sense and sensibilify alike appioved. 
She has sliown us tliat nature alone is strange 
enough, and strong cnouglt, for all the pur- 
poses of interest and iiislruelion wliicli po- 
etry demands : and that its true office is not 
to distort, but to describe ; not to niagniiy, 
but to simplify ; to do justice, strictly, to di- 
vinity, and to humanity, and to tiie universe 
around us, not by assuininjr to puint tlicin 
as tiiey sliould be, but by iuithfully labouring 
to interpret tliein as they are. 

No Delphic frenzy could aid in the dis- 
charge of such a service; it would have 
made it, as in so many otlier cases, (ncrf 
heathen,) it has done, a worse than worth- 
less labour. Slie wanted tiie powers of per- 
ception, and reflection, to appreciate the 
world without, and the world within ; and 
these she had, and did; but not as if to 
know, and to think, only, were the life of 
the souL She wanted sensiliility, — the more 
exquisite the better, — and the more cultivated 
with all the faculties in due pro|X)rtion, the 
belter, — "■ for what is it to live, if it be not 
to love?'* She wanted to be ready to feel, 
as only the good can do, ' at tiie sight of 
whatever is excellent, an emotion like that 
wliich the sweet remembrance of infancy 
causes ;' — an instinct to recognize the fiici 
of tlie beautiful, wiiercver it may be, and t^ 
rush, as it were, into its arms, as the Syrian 
pilgrim,+ from all his wanderings returned 
to his mother's home again, into hers. Sho 
wanted enthusiasm even, in the exen ise of 



' Deeciiuido. 



t Tlic Crusader's Ueturo 



ihnae capacities,— entliusiosm to make tlie 
Mcrciae a delight, and to inspire her to com- 
municate to other bosoiua the rejoicing of 
her own. But witli all these, wtiich she hud, 
she needed no morbid disorder. She had 
none. Slie knew that " we preserve tills 
precious faculty of the heart" — even this — 
'only in proportion as we cultivate truth, 
and guard against the exaggerated, affected, 
or factitiouii.' She kept herself calm even 
for the purpose of feeling — of feeling riglit- 
ly — as much as of seeing clearly, — knowing 
also it is a fruitless torture wc choose to sul- 
fcr, ' to force ourselves to be false to ourselves, 
and to everything, that we may learn how 
to be true;' tliat the n»ind may faithfully 
mirror, only in a state of composure, tlie im- 
pressions which meet it ; tluit the knowledge, 
tlio knowledge of all nature, and csijceially 
of his own, wtiich the j^)ott pursues, flees 
from the rusliing footstep of passion, even as 
tlie haste of the hunlci- startles his game. 
'And wliy, after all,' — the philosoplier we 
have cited so often, inquires, — ' wliy sliould 
we be disturbed ? What should we gain by 
so mucli toil ? VVliy do wc not allow our- 
selves time to breathe 7 The good we fol- 
low' — and tliis is as true in poetry, as in 
philosophy — ' is nearer to the soul than we 
think ; it would come to us, if we only con- 
sented to be calm.^ 

This calmness it is, which eminently cha- 
racterizes the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, and 
which most distinguishes it from the revo- 
lutionary poetry of tl.e revolutionary age we 
live in. It is a self-possession which never 
flirsakcs her in the heat of her highest enthu- 
siasm of joy or sorrow. There is a divine 
dignity, misurpassed even by the grandeur 
of Milton, in the rapture of an admiration 
tliat seems almost to lift her in her song, as 
apou angels' pinions, — 

" To th« breath 
Oi Dorian flute, or lyre oute soft and alow :"* 

and again, in the darkest mood of the ' ten- 
der gloom' which beautifully tinges the 
Arhole surface of her works, (like tlie dim 
religious light of an ancient forest, or of one 
of her own lonely fanes — 

"A nighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast,)" 

llicre is yet a more than wakefiil, — a cheerful, 
—an inextinguishably cheerfiil spirit, — an 
iraracrtal hope, — ' a calmness of the just,' — 
HR manifest and as majestic in herself as in 



' Licague of the Alps. 



her own "Alvar's glorious mien,"t — and 

makuig its voice heard in the midst of ita 

sorrow, hkc tlie martyr's 

" Sweffi and aok-inn-brpiithine strain. 
Piercing tliu lluincs, uiilruniuloiu aud clear " 

We have called it the vital spirit of virtue 
which sustains her. Let us say, in her own 
language, again,— 

" It is a rc'jrful, yet a Klurious thing. 
To hear lliui hymn of niarlyrdum, and know 
Thut ito gliul strcuni oi° melody cuulJ spring 
Up fnmi the unsoundud t; nil's of human woe ! 
Alvarl Theresii I— Wh.it is deep 1 what strongl 
Ood's breath icilhiit the suuU " 

For such an e.xhaustless reservoir of re^ 
sources, after all, is tlic secret of her inspi- 
ration. And tliis, too, is tlie inspiration oi 
truth, deep-seated, but calm, as a lake of the 
hills, in the sun-bright silence of the breast. 

This, then, we regard as the principle of 
the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, — its truth. It im- 
plies mueli, in detail. It implies perception, 
imagination, sensibility, self-control, and 
control over language ; and truth, and taste, 
in all ; tor there is need to know, feel, reason, 
conceive, and describe, and all in tlieir due 
proportion and season ; in other words, as 
truth requires, — since to feel too much (for 
example) is of course as false to Nature as 
to feel too little, or hot at all ; and as regards 
the party to whom poetry is addressed, to 
be unable to command tlie means of convey- 
ing what is felt, by suitable language, is the 
same, so far as the deficiency exists, as if 
there were nothing to be conveyed, and no 
effort made to do it. 

This characteristic implies, then, that 
what is attempted, is done. It does not im- 
ply, necessarily, the highest order of genius, 
in the popular sense of tlie term, or, — not to 
settle the precedence of the diversities of 
genius, — it does not imply every kind of it 
In the Evening Prayer at a Girls' School, 
Mrs. Hemans may have exquisitely succeed- 
ed in doing justice to the truth of a beauti- 
ful subject (as we tliink she has) without 
evincing (as we think she has not) the uni- 
versal power of Shakspeare to identify him 
self, intuitively, as it has been described 
with every character which he wished to re 
present, " and to pass from one to anotliei 
like the same soul successively animating 
different bodies." This may be necessary 
to a perfect dramatic talent, but not to every 
species of composition ; the writer himselfj 
whose splendid sketch we refer to, admit* 

t Forest Sanctuaiy. 



PREFACE. 



15 



that even the universality of his genius 
was ' perhaps a disadvantage to his single 
worJcs,^ the variety of his resources some- 
times diverting him from applying them to 
the most effectual purpose. 

Mrs. Hemans did not attempt everything, 
though her range certainly was wide enough 
to content the mere ambition of most authors. 
Nor did she equally succeed in everything 
she did undertake, especially in the earlier 
part of her career, while it remained yet to 
be decided by trial, to her own satisfaction, 
what she was best qualified to do. It is one 
of the traits she most deserves to be praised 
for, that she has not attempted some things, 
as much as that she succeeded so eminently 
in others. It were far better for the world, 
as well as for those who write for it, if they 
would exercise a good deal more of the mind 
they do possess, in the shape of a sound 
judgment and a nice tact, to determine what 
they cannot accomplish, and what they 
should not attempt. There would be far more 
work done, — and far worthier of being done, 
— and better- done ; — and far fewer of those 
abortive abuses which consist in the jug- 
gling torture, and end often in the sacrifice, 
of I'eal poetical power, with only the reward 
of tlie open-mouthed gaze of the mob, — up- 
turned for a moment, — who are silly enough 
to surround the stage which it plays its 
pranks on. There is no necessity of parti- 
cularizing those portions of the works of our 
authoress, in which slie has succeeded best, 
or least, upon this principle of following her 
bent. Suffice it to say that she made it a 
study — at the expense of experience, of 
course — a serious and conscientious study ; 
and that she finally devoted herself, for the 
most part, with a sagacity and a self-denial 
equally worthy of all admiration, to the de- 
partment she found herself to be fitted for. 
Thus, too, did she follow out the principle 
of her genius, its truth. She was true to 
herself, as well as to nature ; true to her own 
nature, we should rather say ; and because 
she was so, in no small degree it is, that she 
achieved, in those departments, a success 
unrivalled in the history of the literature to 
which we allude. 

It might be expected that poetry to which 
.jiese remarks were applicable, should be 
strongly distinguished by its simplicity ; and 
it is so. Truth is always simple, as every 
species of affectation necessarily is other- 
wise, and stands directly in its light. These 



compositions are as simple as they are calm 
and serene. They will please therefore, at 
least, when they do not surprise ; nay, in 
the midst of all the whirl and turmoil of the 
machinery of the poetry-factory of these 
days, they will surprise, even, by their serene 
simplicity. They did so, especially at their 
first appearance ; and it is only because Mrs 
Hemans herself has accustomed the public 
to this rarest of the novelties, that the im- 
pression of its charm may have been in any 
degree even transiently disparaged, as by 
the charge, for example, of monotony. An 
accomplished writer, to whom we are proba- 
bly more indebted in this country, than to any 
other individual, next to the authoress her- 
self, for the early acquaintance we have mad*- 
with her poems, has well illustrated b<= . mer- 
it in this respect, as compared with the noisy 
and difficult jargon of many who have gone 
before her, by reference to the anecdote of 
Napoleon's coronation, as emperor, in the 
cathedral of Notre Dame. The fondness 
of the French for parade and effect, is well 
known, and this was the most brilliant era 
of the great man's career. The Parisians, 
to -astonish everybody, filled the orchestra 
with eighty harps, which were struck toge- 
ther with unequalled skill, 'The whole 
world' was delighted. But presently enter- 
ed the Pope. A few of his singers, who 
came with hiiii from Rome, received him 
with the Tu es Petrus of Scarlatti. Not an 
instrument was heard ; there were no fash» 
ionable flourishes ; but the simple majesty 
of the old-fashioned air, ' annihilated at 
once the whole effect of the preceding fan- 
faronade.'* We have had a liberal allow- 
ance of instrumental in the poetry of our 
times ; and the Voice of Spring is worth 
the whole of it. What a strength is in its 
simplicity ! What power from lips thai 
seem to tremble, as 

" They strive to speak. 
Like a frail harp-stiing, sliaken by the storm!" 

So spake the Switzer's Wife, when the Spells 
of Home inspired her : — 

"Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light. 
And took her fair child to her holy breast. 

And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might 
As it found language:— "Are we thus oppress'd? 

Then must we rise upon our mountain sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God !" 



* N'orth American Review, for April, 1827. We noo« 
scarcely say, that allusion is made above to thi"^ eciiioj 
of the Boston edition of the P.ariier Poems of Mr* He 
mans. 



16 



PREFACE. 



" 1 know what thou wouldst do,— and be it done ! 

Thy Boul is darken'd wilh its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! This, thy son, 

The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength— if aught be strong on earth 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills, thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

1 can hca.1 all, but seeing thee subdyed,— 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois-paths, and through the forests go; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved '.—Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me,— I can pray !" 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 

To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air: 
He caught her to his breast, while proud tears, breaking 

'^'om his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair,— 
Ana '^''orthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 
"That man for thee should gird himself to die." 

Here, it must be confessed, after all, is the 
forte of Mrs. Hemans, — the fireside; and 
we come now to say, in a word, that we 
consider her not only, as the Edinburgh Re- 
view pronounced her some six years since, 
' The most touching and accomplished writer 
of occasional verses that our literature has 
yet to boast of — splendid as that compli- 
ment is, — but as the model, in every respect, 
of what a female writer of poetry should be. 
Her poetry, itself, is the model of female 
poetry. So to speak. It has not simply a 
negative merit, of course, though that in 
our times is something to be distinguished 
by, if not to boast of; tlie merit of being 
free from the characteristic faults or foibles 
of men or women ; of being perfectly amia- 
ble as well as decorous, and meek and mod- 
est in all the fervour of its earnestness. 
This fervour itself, pure as it is, is an ex- 
quisite quality which belongs, in its true 
fineness, only to a woman's heart. Mrs. 
Hemans had a generous share of it in her 
temperament ; and she has poured and pour- 
id it out, strong and fresh as the rushing 
waters of her own 'streams and founts' of 
the Spring, when they burst 

From their sparry eaves, 
And the earth resounds wilh the joy of waves." 

What devotedness, — what fearless, uncal- 
culating, uncompromising confidence, — the 
confidence of the heart, — of a woman's heart 
— bieathe, as with a living ardour of the 
warm lips themselves, in the agony of Inez at 
the Auto da Fe, when the ' breathless rider' 
found her by the gleam of the midnight fire, 



"And dash'd off fiercely those who cams to part. 
And rush'd to that pale girl, and clasp'd her to his heart 



And for a moment all aror.nd gave way 
To that full burst of passion !— on his breast. 
Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay. 
But blest— in misery's very lap— yet blest !— 
Oh love, love, strong as death !— from such an hour 
Pressing out joy by thine immortal power. 
Holy and fervent love I had earth but rest 
For thee and thine, this world were all too fair ! 
How could we thence be wean'd to die without despair? 

But she— as falls a willow from the storm. 
O'er its own river streaming— thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her fragile forna 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck— with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold. 
As if naught earthly might th' embrace unbind ! 
Alas! a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to kill' 

What a picture is this ! How do we feel 
that only one who has herself a heart, and 
such a heart, can render such justice to 

"The strife 
or love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of hfs, 
Within her woman's breast!" 

How do we seem to hear, as her hero ' woos 
her back to life,' in his frenzy, her ^ soft 
voice in his soul .'' How do we see, again, 

"Her large tears gush 
Like blood-drops from a victim ; with swift rain 
Bathing the bosom where she leaned that hour, 
Ms if her life would melt in that o' erswelling shower.'" 

Not an ' inalienable trust' is this, alone ; 
but what an exquisite tenderness is mingled 
with it ; and how does that trait pervade 
this poetry everywhere, till it must melt the 
manhood even of the ' stoics of the wood,' 
the savages in sentiment, who would have 
been themselves ashamed — forsooth ! — to 
' stain' their Indian page ' with grief.' Yet 
have they wept with the Bride of the Greek 
Isle, when leaving the vine at her father's 
door, and the myrtle once called her own, 

" She turn'd— and her mother's gaze brought back 
Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 
Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 
Flow to the dream of her early years ! 
Holy and pure are the drops that fall 
When the young briiie goes from her falhers' hall; 
She goes unto love yet untried and new. 
She parts from love which hath still been true; 
Mute be the song and the choral strain, 
Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again! 
She wept on her mother's faithful breast. 
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 
She wept— 2/fi laid her hand the while 
In his that waited her dawning smile. 
Her soul's affiayiccd, ner cherish'd less 
For the gush of nature's tenderness !" 

These, we say, are the fervour, and tlie 
trust, and the tenderness, of a woman's po- 
etry. Shakspearo himselfj perfect as evesi 
his female characters are, — as far as they are 
not female, but only human, — did not write 



« 



thus, and could not, for though he was like 
all other men, excepting tliat he resembled 
nobody, as Hazlitt describes him, he was 
not like wmnan, and he could enter into the 
feeling of her character, — the female feeling, 
— in some respects perhaps but little better 
than Milton himself. It is no reproach to 
him that he could not, any more than it is 
to Mrs. Henians that slie could not write like 
him. It may, however, occasion a dramatic 
deficiency, — more or less perceptible to the 
reader, as he or she is possessed more or less 
of the quality itself in question, — wlierever 
the play moves over ground which does not 
belong to this genius of man: and hence 
Shakspeare appears best upon his own ground, 
and so far forth as he represents the influ- 
ence, rather than the absolute existence, of 
the otlier sex. Aiad the same is true of her, 
and of her heroes. If it be true to a greater 
extent, on one hand, she has gained and 
saved something, on the other, by the exer- 
cise, in this instance, again, of that excellent 
tact — itself almost a characteristic of the sex, 
— which she has generally employed to so 
good purpose in the choice of subjects as 
well as of style, and not less in forbearance 
than in effort. She has avoided, almost en- 
tirely, mere masculine materiel, and has gra- 
dually abandoned even those topics of gene- 
ral interest, which do not actually require 
tlie exertion of her more peculiar power. If 
she leaves the fireside occasionally, she does 
not travel in male disguise, — still less does 
she cease to be what she is. Her household 
gods go with her wherever she goes, — and 
the sound of their parting footsteps is audi- 
ble with her own. With the wreck and the 
treasures of the deep, 'mid gold and gems, 
and buried isles, and towers o'erthrown, we 
find 

"The lost and lovely ! — Ihose for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long !" 

She brings her 'flowers' for crowns to the 
early dead, and for 

"Brides to wear,— 
They were hora to blush in their shining hair!" 

She sends, the Crusader to Syrian deserts, 
that he may find his way back again to 
some fond mother's glance,' that ' o'er hhn, 
too, brooded in his early years.' Slie makes 
the conqueror in his sleep, 'a child again.' 
riie Traveller, at the source of the Nile, 
B 



thinks of the wild sweet voices of the streams, 
in 

" Haunts of play. 
Where brightly tlirough the beechen shade. 
Their waters slanced away." 

Her trumpet sounds for the lover to quit his 

marriage altar, and 

"The mother on her first-born son, 
Looks with a boding eye ;" 

and it is still ' woman on the field of battls 
itself She felt that here was her empire 
She knew that it was the spells of homi; 
which inspired her, and she clmig even to 
the forsaken hearth, and to the graves them- 
selves, of the household. The element of her 
poetry was the warm air of the fireside. 
The faith, the trust, the fear, the love, even 
the anguish, of a vi^oman's heart, sustained 
her, — and she revived with the ' taste of 
tears,'* — and again, and again, while yet she 
weeps, like the Bride of the Isle, till her voice 
seems lost with the choking swell, sweeter 
and clearer than ever do 

" Her lovely thoughts from their cells find way 

In the sudden flow of the plaintive lay." 

We say, thesi, the distinctive character of 
her poetry is female — and in its being in 
that department just what it should be. It 
is all the records of woman ; all, the songs 
of the afl^ections. It is the poetry of the 
household, the poetry of the heart. 

Nor let us, in this connexion, lose sight 
ahogether of the aid she derived from her 
personal experience, her experience as a wife 
and a mother, and still more, the lessons 
which circumstances, more individual, must 
have taught her. We will not go largely 
into these, but it is essential to a right appre- 
ciation of her poetical character, that as much 
of her history as a popular foreign writer 
has lately communicated, should be known ■• 
' They learn in suffering what they teach m 
song,' was Shelley's maxim; and Mrs. He- 
mans did more than to adopt it as a theme.t 
She lived it her Yii^G long; and, like 1 er Va^ 

* Forest Sanctuary. 

. t " Felicia Dorothea Drowne was born in Li\ rrpool. 
m a small quiiinr-looking house in St. Anne slii^c:, now 
standing, old fashioned and desolate, in the mid?: of iho 
newer buddings hy which it is surrounded. Our ah 
staining Irom any altempi minutely to trace her 1. 1 lory 
requires no ap(doay; it is enough to say, that wl.. u sho 
was very young, her family removed from Liverp-nd to 
the neighbourhood of St. Asaph, in Norih Wales ; iliat 
she married at a very early ace — Ihat her niarriei' life 
alter the birlh of fivesuns, w:is clouded hy theestrr'p'c- 
ment of her husband— ihal, on Ihe <lenth of her nicMcr 
with whom she had residi^d. she broke up her estaf ali- 
ment m Wales, nnd renidved lo Wavertiee, in ili« 
m-ighl)ourlio(i(l of l/ivi i |„,ul— from whence. aOer a i 'Si 
dence cil nlji.ui iliiii' years, she again removed to \j<A> 

hn— her last resiing place." Atkc-limum 

1 See The Diver. 



18 



PREFACE. 



lenciaii heroine, she took her toils nobly on 

her, knowing how 

" Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suifeiing hearts, 
Not amidst joy ;" 

tliough mourning', with the Sicilian, as sh^ 

did, 

" That there should be 
Things, which we love with such deep tenderness, 
But, through that love, to learn how much of woe 
Dwells in one hour like this." 

Yet loved she on, and learned on, till her 
poetry has been imbued with such a spirit 
of tlie heart, as could seem only, like the dy- 
ing breath of the trampled violet, to have 
been crushed out of it in the act of its ex- 
tinction. There was no need of aflTectation. 
She had in herself, again, the truth. She 
looked in her heart, and wrote.* 

Much might be said of. the perfect purity 
d,nd dignity of the poetry of Mrs. Hemans; 
but these are inferable from the sketch we 
have given already, as general as it is. She 
has not been surpassed in these attributes by 
any writer of the severest school. It was 
the result with her, of an ambition of the 
highest order — a deep religious principle — no 
more than Milton's ' to be raised from the 
heat of youth or tlie vapours of wine ;' ' nor 
to be obtained by the invocation of Dame 
Memory and her siren daughters ; but by 
devout prayer to tliat eternal Spirit who can 
enrich with all utterance and knowledge, 
and sends out his seraphim with the hallow- 
ed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the 
lips of whom he pleases.' To such a mind 
there was a beauty in every thing which 
God has created ; and although it was no 
error of hers, as it has been of so many be- 
fore her, to search out the materials of poetry 
with such microscopic eyes as to degrade its 
rioble office — describing the interior of a cot- 
tage, (as a witty critic remarked of Crabbe,) 
like a person sent there to distrain for the 
lease, and recording a rent in a counterpane 
its an event iu history — none could be more 
alive than she was to the respectability, so 
to speak, of all that reason discovers and re- 
hgion reveals, of the spiritual meanings of 
the universe around us, in the least as well 
as the grandest of its parts. She has told us 
where we may trace these meanings in our 
daily paths. She had tr 3ed them herself. 
Slie had looked upon nature with eyes of 
Inve. that clothed it, in all its shapes, with the 

* Sir Philip Sydney. 



mind's mystery, like the ' faith, touching aiJ 
things with hues of heaven.' No author has 
luxuriated in the beauties of the physical 
world with a keener relish than she has ; and 
none has come nearer to raising them as it 
were into life itself, by the connexion with 
the lessons of life which she gives them. 
There is no little genius to be exercised in 
preserving the delicate relation between the 
dignity of humanity, of mind, time, eternit)', 
virtue, truth, of God himself, — the highest 
themes of song, in a word, — on one liand, 
and that of the subordinate subject-matter, 
equally to be regarded in its way, on the 
other. This relation she has seen and re- 
spected. All her imagery, borrowed from 
nature, rich as it is, is made, like oriental 
flowers, to mean something, and to utter it 
in a language of its own. It is a sort of 
trellice-work, for thought and affection to 
climb upon. The Palm Tree, for example 
is laden, as it were, with a moral, as v/ith 
clusters of golden grapes. 

In respect to the religious dignity which 
she attached to her profession, the late wri- 
ter in the Athenseum, referred to above, 
quotes from a letter which lay before him : — 
' I have now,' she says, ' passed through the 
feverish and somewhat visionary state of 
mind often connected with the passionate 
study of art in early life ; deep affections ana 
deep sorrows seem to have solemnized my 
whole being, and I now feel as if bound to 
higher and holier tasks, which, though I may 
occasionally lay aside, I could not long wan- 
der from without some sense of dereliction 
I hope it is no self-delusion, but I canno' 
help sometimes feeling as if it were my true 
task to enlarge the spliere of sacred poetry 
and extend its influence. When you re- 
ceive my volume of ' Scenes and Hymns, 
you will see what I mean by enlarging its 
sphere, though my plan as yet is very im- 
perfectly developed.' How much she ac- 
complished in this noblest sphere of her la- 
bours, will be seen in the following pages 
How much remained to be done, which she 
might have accomplished, is a reflection thai 
must add a new poignanc)^ to the sorrow her 
death has occasioned. 

She speaks here of the passionate study o) 
art in early life. And this is not the least 
of her merits, — that she did study, early and 
late, her whole life long, making poetry, as 
it deserves, no less a subject of science than 
a gift of genius. She was above the misera 



PREFACE. 



19 



ble disparagement of labour, and learning, 
and piiacticc, and tlie advice of the world. 
Slic profited continually by them all; and 
the critics have in no respect rendered her 
fuller justice, than in noticing the astonish- 
ing progress indicated by her successive pro- 
ductions. There are embryo traces, indeed, 
of her peculiar mind, and particularly of her 
fervid temperament and rich imagination, 
even in the juvenile volume alluded to above 
—and passages of the Sceptic are scarcely 
surpassed in strength by anything which 
has followed them — but, in general, the con- 
tinuity of character, so to speak, from first 
to last, is little more than sufficient to show, 
at the same time with the identity of the 
intellect, the wonder-working effect of what 
Milton calls ' industrious and select reading, 
steady observation, insight into all seemly 
and generous arts and affairs.' A glance at 
her notes, mottoes, and translations alone, 
vvill convey the notion of a learning in the 
languages which would seem to be result 
enough, in itself, for the toil of a life like 
iiers. Hence much of her glowing facility 
and felicity of language. Much of it, indeed, 
— the unrivalled elegance, (for there is no- 
thing in Enghsh literature which exceeds 
Iier in this regard,) the exquisite grace, the 
indescribable tact of phraseology, — tliese 
were original v.ath her, and were especially 
among the female traits of her genius. Even 
these, however, were improved with the 
rest, till by dint of discipline, added to na- 
tive ability, she came at length to be mis- 
tress of an inimitable finishing-power, — a 
power of doing precise justice to the niceties 
of conception with which perhaps the mind 
of a woman only is conversant, — a minia- 
ture minuteness, — such as nothing short of 
the power itself would enable us properly to 
describe. The entlmsiasm of Mrs. Hcmans 
made even her industry indefatigable. Tliose 
who affect her more attractive qualities, will 
do well to imitate this. It requires no small 
sliare, in the outset, to study her works at- 
tentively enough — especially as they are 
read cursorily with such eager interest — to 
appreciate the credit she deserves in this re- 
qpcrt. It was the most difficult result of her 
abour that she succeeded in concealing the 
effort, wliile she proved the effect. 

Thus, then, is her poetry distinguished. 
Others have possessed lier imagination, her 
taste, her ambition, ]>er art, her glowing 
feeling, her christian principle ; but they did 



not all undertake, and tliey were not all com- 
petent if they had, to devote the exercise of 
every energy, effectually, to the one object 
of her labours, — tlie composition of a mode' 
which might perfectly represent what fe. 
male poetry is and should be. This Mrs 
Hemans has done. She had a genius wor 
thy to be the representative of that of lier 
sex, — and she sounded the depths of its capa- 
cities of exertion and suffering, and trained 
them, with every faculty, to do justice to 
herself, her sex, her race, her Creator, in the 
discharge of the true office of the profession 
she chose, — the illuminating or figuring forth 
of truth, (as Sydney describes it,) and espe- 
cially of the trutli most worthy of the work, 
— which it most concerns men, as sucli, to 
feel the force of, — and which, also, she was 
herself best qualified so to set forth — 'fty the 
speaking picture of poetry.'' She wrote not 
only as none but a woman could write, but 
so wrote as that, in her department, neither 
her predecessors, or successors, of her own 
sex, have been, or will be, able to surpass her. 
In introducing her works entire, for the 
first time, it may be proper to allude to the 
interest she has been frequently known to 
express in our peculiar institutions and pros- 
pects, and the gratification she derived from 
the evidence, to which she could not be blind, 
that her productions were nowhere more 
cordially welcomed, or more fully appreci- 
ated, than here. For the numerous compo 
sitions founded on American themes, sucli a 
reception was rather to be anticipated, as a 
mark of the pleasure we felt in the worthy 
illustration of our national topics, and espi- 
cially by the talent of one who by no niean^ 
deemed it necessary to be faithless to her 
own country, or to any thing else her own, 
that she might do justice to the world at 
large beside. But this was not her sole re- 
commendation to us. Five years since an 
English autliority of note suggested that 'her 
peculiar beauties were first pointed out to us 
by our trans-atlantic brethren.' There was 
great truth in the remark ; and the fact is 
as creditable to one party, as the admission 
of it is to the other. She has lost nothing 
among us in later days, and her American 
fame was dear to the last. The feeling with 
wliich the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
is regarded, was rightly represented to hei 
during the last season, by a gentleman from 
New-England, who called on her at Dub 
lin, and the enthusiasm of grati ication «b 



■tz 



20 



PRETACE. 



expressed to him, was such as the composi- 
tion itself might lead us to expect. She had 
composed that poem in the glow of a burst 
of admiration, immediately awakened by the 
chance perusal of a part of some Plymouth 
Oration (as it seemed to be) which she found 
on a scrap of an old newspaper. ' And I can 
tell you the portion of it we like best,' our 
friend added, — 

"And they left unstained, what there l\\ey found;'"— 
Ay, freedom to worship God ." she quickly 
subjoined ; ' the truth was the best part of it, 
r know :^— I rejoice that it is so, and that 
you so understand it.' 

We trust it will be so understood, as long 
as the old Rock itself shall stand. To tell tlie 
truth of that grand occasion, was praise 
enough for any poet ; it was a truth stronger 
than fiction ever was, and which fiction 
could but degrade. But we know her more 
than as the poet of the Pilgrims. We shall 
cherish the fame which was born with us ; 
she has trusted it safely to our hands. We 
Bhall remember her as she would herself 
have desired to be remembered, in all 'words 
that breathe, and thoughts that burn.' She 
asks, — let us hear her once more, — 

' When will yo think of me, my friends? 
When will ye think of me 1 — 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought,— 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me'? 
When the rose of the rich mid-summer time 
Is fill'd vvith the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its blonm, as in bright hours fled, 
{■'roin the walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread — 

Then let jt be \ 



When will ye think of me, sweet friends? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody, 
W^hen ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream. 

Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends' 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'lis well to be fled and gone— 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — f 

So let it be I" 

Ay, and so will it be. It will be with the 

thousands of hearts which have been, like 

Sydney's, 'moved more than with a trumpet,' 

now by the soft sweetness that pleaded for 

room in the Pagan Heaven, 'mid all the 

' nobler dead,' for the unknown ' most loved," 

" Of whom fame speaks not, with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls ;" 

and now with the majestic spirit of the strain 

that gives a ' memory on the mountains,' to 

the brave bands who pledged their faith for 

freedom — 

" Where the light 
Of day's last foolstep bathes in burning gold 
Great Righi's cliffs; and where Mount Pilate's height 
Casts o'er his starry lake the darkness of his might." 

It will be, as long as the deep yearnings 

which she knew so well to express, and to 

address, shall remain with men. It will 

be, in the Hour of Prayer, and the Hour of 

Death ; and the Dreams of the Better Land 

will be lighted with hues of the haunting 

beauty of remembered visions of the song. 

It will be while yet the honour of heroic 

virtue shall live upon human lips, and till 

the holy love, in human hearts so »orely 

tried, shall find, after all its weary tussing 

upon time's waves, a home where it ma.v 

rest, t, 

" remembering not 

The moauina of the gea!' 



BiOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF THE LATE MRS. HEMANS. 



[This Memoir is extracted entire from "The Poetical Remains of the late Mrs. Hemans," a volume recently 
publislied in Eilinburgh. embracing some productions of our author which had not hitherto been published 
7'hese will be found in this volume, beginning on page Hi, and extending to the close of the book.] 



As this is the last of a series of poetical volumes 
which, making their appearance at intervals during 
the last nineteen years, have in an especial manner 
arrested the attention of the imaginative and the in- 
tellectual ; and, as all have naturally a desire to know 
something of those from whom they have received 
mental gratification or delight, it has been determined, 
that a brief biographical memoir of the accomplished 
and lamented author, should be prefixed to these pages 

Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool on 
the 25th of September, 1793. Her mother, whose fa- 
mily-name was Wagner, although a German by ap- 
pellation, was of Italian descent. Her father was a 
merchant of considerable eminence ; but, being en- 
gaged in extensive speculations, during the unfixed 
and varying periods of the French Revolution, he, in 
common with many others, from the unlooked-for and 
destructive changes of that eventful time, suffered 
under those reverses which are incidental to a com- 
mercial life. A few years afterwards, and while his 
daughter was consequently still very young, he retired 
with his family into Wales, and resided for some time 
at Gvvrych, near Abergele, in Denbighshire. 

In that secluded region, where the romantic varie- 
ties of sea and moimtain scenery are beautifully com- 
bined and contrasted, the lamented subject of this 
short memoir was educated by a mother, not only of 
exemplary virtue, but wliose acquirements were of a 
high order. Here also it was, that Mrs. Hemans re 
ceived those impressions of the sublime and lovely in 
the features of the external world, which ever after- 
wards lent a colouring to her feelings, and exercised 
so marked an influence on the tone of her mind and 
writings. 

Under these fostering influences, the peculiar bias 
of her imagination and intellect began to develope 
itself at an early period of childhood. While yet only 
in her sixth year, she took to the reading of Shakspeare 
as her favourite recreal on, and, such was the reten- 
tiveness of her memory, ihat she could repeat pages 
of his most striking scenes, as well as many passages 
from our best poets, after little more than a single 
perusal. Tlie circumstance is certainly not a unique 
one, but, in her case, is a proof of the intense delight, 
which her mind enjoyed while imbibing the beautiful 
and grand in sentiment, — impressions so instantane- 
ously stamped showing their depth by their durability. 

Such a prevailing love of poetry soon naturally 
"umeu to a cultivation of the art in her own person; 



and a volume of verses, written by her, \\ hen she was 
not yet eleven years old, attracted from that circum- 
stance, as well as fi-om their intrinsic merit, no incon- 
siderable share of public attention. This little volume 
was, in the course of the four succeeding years, fol 
lowed by two others, which evinced powers gradually 
but steadily expanding, and which were received with 
increasing favour by the admirers of poetry. Her 
studies, up to this time, had been the world to her ; 
with nature and her books she had lived in devoted 
seclusion, dreaming bright dreams ; storing up know- 
ledge ; and, no doubt, enjoying by occasional anticipa- 
tion, glimpses of that reputation, which was eventually 
to encircle her name. But a change soon passed over 
the spirit of that Elysian picture ; and, in her nine- 
teenth year, she was married to Captain Hemans, of 
the Fourth Regiment, a gentleman of highly respect- 
able connections. Unfortunately his health had been 
undermined by the vicissitudes of a military life — 
more particularly by the hardships he had endured 
in the disastrous retreat to Corunna, and by the fever, 
which proved so fatal to many of our troops in the 
Walcheren expedition. Indeed to such an extent was 
this breaking up, as to render it necessary for him, a 
few years after their marriage, to exchange his native 
climate for the milder sky of Italy. 

The literary pursuits of Mrs. Hemans rendering it 
ineligible for her to leave England, she continued to 
reside with her mother and sister at a quiet and pretty 
spot, near St. Asaph, in North Wales ; where, in the 
bosom of her family, entirely devoted to literature, 
and to the education of five interesting boys, in whose 
welfare centredv«all the energies of her mind and 
heart, she 

" Trod in gentle peace her guileless way ;" 
and won more and more on public regard and estima- 
tion by the simple and pathetic beauty of those highly 
gifted productions, which have not only thrown an 
additional beauty over female nature, but have, doubt- 
less, advanced in many a meditative bosom the sacrea 
causes of religion and virtue. 

Apart from all intercourse with literary society, and 
acquainted only by name and occasional correspond- 
ence with any of the distinguished authors of whom 
England has to boast, Mrs. Hemans, during the pio- 
gress 01 her poetical career, had to contend with more 
and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path 
of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, 
therefore, that it was to her own nr.'eiit alone, wholly 
(21) 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 



independent oi" adventitious cii-cumstances, that she 
was indebted for the extensive share of popularity 
which her compositions ultimately obtained. From 
this Ftudious seclusion were given forth the two poems 
which first permanently elevated her among the wri- 
ters of her age, — the " Restoration of the Works of Art 
to Italy," and "Modern Greece." In these the matu- 
rity of her intellect appears ; and she makes us feel, 
that she has marked out a path for herself through the 
regions of song. The versification is high-toned and 
musical, in accordance with the sentiment and sub- 
ject; and in every page, we have evidence not only 
of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and re- 
search. These efforts were favourably noticed by 
Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. 
Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent 
counsellors cheered her on by their approbation : the 
reputauon, which, through years of silent study and 
exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened 
and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward 
to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequi- 
vocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world: 
and, probabl}', this was the happiest period of her 
life. The translations from Camoens ; the Prize poem 
of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, The Tales and 
Historic Scenes, the Sceptic, The Welsh INIelodies ; 
the Siege of Valencia ; and the Vespers of Palermo, 
nay all be referred to this epoch of her literary career ; 
and are characterized by beauties of a high and pecu- 
liar stamp. With reference to the two latter, it must 
be owned, that if the genius of Mrs. Hemans was not 
essentially dramatic, yet that they abound with high 
and magnificent bursts of poetry It wfis not easy to 
adapt her fine taste and uniformly high-toned senti- 
ment to the varied aspects of life and character, ne- 
cessary to the success of scenic exhibition ; and she 
must have been aware of the difficulties that sur- 
rounded her in that path. If these cannot, therefore, 
be considered as successful tragedies, they hold tlieir 
places, as dramatic poems of rich and rare poetic 
beauty. Indeed it would be diflicultT from the whole 
lange of Mrs. Hemans' writings, to select anything 
more exquisitely conceived, more skilfully managed, 
or more energetically written, than the Monk's Tale 
in the Siege of Valencia. His description of his son, 
in which he dwells with parental enthusiasm on his 
boyish beautj' and accomplishments — of his horror at 
that son's remmciation of the Christian faith, and 
leaguing with the infidel — and of the twilight encoun- 
ter in which he took the life of his own giving, — are 
all worked out in the loftiest spirit of poetry. 

The life of Mrs. Hemans thus continued for many 
ioars a scene of uninterrupted domestic privacy — in- 
fercourse with the world, in an extended acceptation 
jf liie term, might be said to have been dropped by 
bei : and the ideas with which her mind was stored, 
were derived solely from reading, united to a deep 
"iseling 01 the beauties of nature, and its own bright 
wmorenension and discernment. Her talent for ac- 1 



quiring languages was veiy remarkable, and she Avas 
well versed in German, French, Italian, Spanish, and 
Portuguese, with a sufficient knowledge of Latin for 
eveiy requisite purpose. Of these languages she pre- 
ferred the first, which she cultivated with much in- 
terest, finding its literature most in unison with her 
own stj'le of feeling and of tliought. She took parti 
cular pleasure in the writings of Schiller and Goethe, 
and considered h<r intimacy with their works m par- 
ticular, and with the many treasures of German lite- 
rature generally, as having imparted an entirely new 
impulse to the powers of her own mind. Nor in this 
did she judge erroneously. About this time were 
composed some of those inimitable lyrics, — more espe 
cially " The Treasures of the Deep," " The Hebrew 
Mother," "The Voice of Spring," and "The Plour of 
Death," which the American critic Neale has quaintly 
characterized " lumps of pure gold ;" and which will 
find a response in the human bosom, till the end oi 
all time. A deep and reverential study of our own 
Wordsworth was added to that of these continental 
classics ; and, with what success, " The Records of 
Woman," " The Lays of Many Lands," " The Forest 
Sanctuar}-," "The Songs of the Affections," and 
" The Scenes and Hymns of Life," will long remain 
to testify. 

In music and drawing the acquirements of Mrs 
Hemans were such as naturally might have been ex 
peeled, in a mind so fraught with taste and imagina- 
tion. She preferred in the former w'liat was national 
and melancholy ; and her strains adapted for singing 
were, of course, fram.ed to the tones most congenial 
to the temperament of her own mind. How success- 
full}' wed to the magic of sweet sound many of lier 
verses have been by her sister, no lover of music need 
to be reminded. The " Roman Girl's Song" is full of 
a soh?mn classic beautj' ; and, in one of her letters, ii 
is said that of the " Captive Knight," Sir Walter Scott 
never was wearj'. Indeed, it seems in his mind to 
have been the song of Chivalry, representative of the 
English ; as the Flowers of the Forest was of the 
Scottish ; the Cancionella Espaiiola of the Spanish 
and the Rhine Song of the German. In her love for 
painting, she had few" opportunities of indulging; bu 
tliose lew were rich in interest and imagery. 

The death of her mother in 1827, and the marriage 
of her sister in the following j'ear, added to the neces- 
sity of additional facilities for the education of her 
bo}'S, induced INIrs. Hemans to leave Wales, and to 
fix her residence at Wavertree, near Liverpool. Whilst 
at that place, a favourable opportunitj' occurred for 
her visiting Scotland, with the scenery of which she 
was delighted ; and, the remembrance of the friends 
she had made, and the courtesy she had experienced 
there, was never effaced from her memory. In her 
journeyings on this occasion, she had the pleasure of 
forming a personal acquaintance with Sir Walter 
Scott, J^rd Jeffrey, Wordsworth the author of Cyril 
Thornton, and other distinguished literary characteff 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 



The writer of this humble sketch had, also, at this 
lime til) / honour of meeting her, and enjoying a few 
brief, but deliglitful hours of her society. Her resi- 
dence both at Ambleside and at Abbotsford, was for- 
mnately of sufficient duration to make her intimately 
acquainted with the illustrious persons there ; and 
while in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, her prin- 
cipal sojourn was at Milburn Tower, the seat of the 
venerable Sir Robert Listen. 

Shortly after her return from a second visit to Scot- 
land, Mrs. Hemans changed her residence to Dublin, 
where her Hymns lor Childhood, and her National 
Lyrics and Songs for iVIusic were published. It was 
impossible now, when her fame had become national, 
to live altogether in the quiet sequestration which she 
had enjoyed in Wales, and had expected to find at 
Wavertree ; but, that she courted retirement, as much 
as the nature of her situation and the claims of society 
admitted, is evident. 

The seeds of the complaint which terminated the 
existence of this amiable and gifted woman, had long 
been sown, and their growth was sadly apparent to 
those who formed the circle of her intimates in Dublin 
Her constitution, never strong, was probably unable 
to resist with impunity the feverish excitement atten- 
dant on a life of such unremitted mental exertion, and 
the hectic changes, which latterly passed over her 
countenance, too clearly indicated to her anxious 
I'ricnds, what was working within. Yet while all 
around her were filled with painful, but too well- 
grounded apprehensions, she did not for some time 
appear sensible of the fearful encroachments which 
m insidious disease was silently making on a frame 
so delicate in texture. It was only a few months be- 
fore her death, when staying at the country-seat of the 
/ rchbishop of D ublin (which that distinguished prelate 
liad kindly placed at her disposal), that she began to 
entertain a deep presentiment that life was drawing 
to a close. Her mind, naturally meditative and me- 
lancholy, seemed gradually to become imbued with a 
deep consciousness of her situation. Instead of the 
steady glow of health, it was but too evident that the 
lamp of life was glimm.ering in the socket, and her 
compositions about that period, more especially her 
glorious lyric " Despondency and Aspiration," are evi- 
dently darkened by the gloom of a melancholy fore- 
boding. Not unprofitably had the night of death cast 
these dreary shadows before; and on Saturday the 
IGth May, 1835, Felicia Hemans met her fate with 
the calm resignation of a Christian.* Nothing can be 
nore indicative of the lone of her mind at this period, 
than the Sabbath Sonnet, with which the present vo- 
lume concludes, and which was dictated from her 
deathbed, to her brother Major Browne, a short time 
before her decease. In that sad but beautiful compo- 
Bition, the situation of the writer is plaintively indi- 
cated ; but faith upholds sinking nature, and the 



* Her remaina were deposited in the vault of St. Anne's 
Church, Dublin. 



melancholy is mingled with, and triumphed over by 
the workings of a resigned and chastened spirit. 

During her long illness, siie was attended with the 
most unwearied care and disinterested kindness by 
Dr. Graves and by Dr. Croker, two eminent physicians^ 
of Dublin; nor were her last moments unsoothed by 
the attention of real friends, as well as by the presence 
of near and dear relatives. It is but justice to the 
illustrious living to mention, that, while confined to 
her sick-room, Mrs. Hemans received some noble tri- 
butes of kindness from Sir Robert Peel ; and that, 
without the slightest solicitation, he gave her fourth 
son a place in the Admiralty. 

Many of Mrs. Hemans' Works were reprinted at 
Boston, in the United States, under the friendly auspi- 
ces of Professor Norton, who secured for her the pro- 
ceeds of their very extensive sale. Indeed the genius 
of the author of the " Records of Woman,'' " the Forest 
Sanctuary," and " the Scenes and Hymns of Life" has 
been there regarded with an enthusiasm, of which 
few on this side of the Atlantic can have any belief 
Nor was this impression confined simply to the gene- 
ral mind. We have only to refer to the periodical 
works of America, during the last ten years, to be 
made aware of the space she filled in literaiy estima- 
tion, and of the admiration with which her succeeding 
volumes were hailed. No better proof of this can be 
adduced than the shoal of imitators which sprang up 
among ourl'ransatlantic brethren — for it is only what 
we admire most, that we most desire to copy. To their 
credit be it said, that they could not, among modem 
writers, have chosen a model of purer taste, or more 
classic elegance. Other minds of a higher order have 
a^'owL-Jly lighted the torch of their inspiration at her 
shrine. In fact, they have selected Mrs. Hemans as 
the head of a literary school, and have formed them- 
selves on the most prominent excellencies of her pe- 
culiar manner. 

We cannot part from this vie wof our subject without 
again adverting to the enthusiastic interest which Pro- 
lessor Norton has taken in the dissemination of the 
writings of Mrs. Hemans among his countrymen. Both 
in her conversation and in her letters; she was eloquent 
in her expressions of gratitude towards him in this re- 
spect; and all her admirers are bound to respect that 
gentleman, for the disinterested endeavours he so suc- 
cessfully made, not only in rendering her genius more 
extensively known; but, probably, for having been 
the means of exciting her to exertions, whicti might 
have otherwise been damped by limited success, or 
altogether frustrated by critical hostility. Tiiat Fehcia 
Hemans would have been a poetess, whether contem- 
porary criticism had allowed the fact or not. admits not 
of dispute ; but slill we know not how far, m manv 
respects, even the most gifted and intellectual are the 
children of circumstances. Many a flower of genius, 
which would have expanded under the sunshine of 
popular favour, has been nipt in the bloom by iho 
chilling breath of disregard. 



24 



BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 



Mrs. Heraans >'^'as about the middle height, and ra- 
ther slenderly made than otherwise. To a counte- 
nance of great intelligence and expression, she united 
manners alike unassuming and playful ; and with a 
trust arising out of the purity of herown character, — 
which was beyond the meanness of suspicion in others, 
she remained untainted by the breath of worldly guile. 
Her heart overflowed with tenderness in all the rela- 
tions of domestic hfe ,■ and the exquisite delicacy of her 
perceptions, regarding all that is pure, ennobling, and 
of good report, remains for ever stamped on her vari- 
ous writings. 

It is beyond the scope of ihe present memoir to enter 
into any critical analysis or examination of the numer- 
ous publications of Mrs. Hemans. They are now, as 
she has left them, at the bar of posterity ; and it is 
pleasmg to think, when we consider the degree of at- 
tention with which they have been received, that no 
undue or empirical means were resorted to, to influ- 
ence popular suflTrage. On the contrary, most of them 
were produced in solitude, and apart even from the 
exciting influences of literary society. The author 
experienced nothing of the fostering partiality of cote 



trifling occurrence of the moment, — a word spoken, — 
a tone heard, — a circumstance of daily life, — frequently 
formed the germ of what, in her active imagination, 
was woven into a beautiful and perfect composition. 
Yet it should be remembered, that, instead of trusting 
to her natural powers of thought and fancy, she was, 
through the whole course of her literary career, an ar- 
dent and unwearied student. From a course of ex- 
tensive reading, she enlarged her comprehension with 
much that was soul-stirring and noble, — with much 
that was gentle and refined : and if she has not often 
ventured, — as Wordsworth, Crabbe, and Wilson have 
so powerfully done, — to descend to the delineation of 
what is homely in life and manners, it evidently arose 
from no arrogance of intellect, but simply from such 
tliemes being incompatible with the system which she 
formed for herself ) and had resolved to follow out in 
her writings. 

Mrs. Jameson has truly said, that " the poetiy of Mrs 
Hemans could only have been written by a woman.'" 
In all her thoughts and feelings she is intensely ani) 
entirely feminine; a,nd there is a finish and complete- 
ness about her composition, singularly accordant with 



ries; nor, as we have said, had she a personal ac- tlie fine perception, and delicate discrimination of rne 



quaintance with any of the contemporary lights of 
poetry, until she herself had become a part of the con- 
stellation. With her sister spirits, Joanna Baillie, Caro- 
line Bowles, Mary Mitfbrd, Leiitia Landon, and Mary 
Howitt, she pressed forward in generous emulation; 
but there was not a spark of rivalry in her bosom. 
Their glory was in a great measure felt as her own; 
and she rejoiced in their success, with a cordial 
warmth, which it vi'as truly delightful to observe. 



female mind. In her poetry religious truth and inte' 
lectual beauty meet together, and blend in delightfrJ 
union; and assuredly it is not the less calculated to 
refine the taste and exalt the imagination, because ii 
addresses itself only to the better feelings of our na- 
ture. Over all her pictures of humanity are spread 
the glory and the grace reflected from purity of mo- 
rals, dignity of sentiment, beauty of imagery, sublimity 
of religious faith, and ardour of patriotism ; and, turn- 



Without aspiring to the vehemence, which some ing from the dark and degraded, whether in circum- 
vvriters have mistaken for energy, the poetry of Mre. ' stance or conception, she seeks out those verdant oases 
Ilemaus is never languid, even in the depths of its ! in the desert of human life, on which the wings of 



her imagination may most pleasantly rest. Her energy 
resembles that of the dove, 

"Pecking the hand that hovers o'er its mate," 

and her exaltation of thought is not of that dariiig 
kind, which doubts, and derides, or even questions, 
but which clings to the anchor of hope, and looks for- 
ward with faith and reverential fear. 

Mrs. Hemans has written much, and on 3 Pai £lyof 
subjects ; and, as with all authors of similar ^e^■^atilily 
tlifng akUi to sentiment and perception. Nothing can | her strahis possess different degrees of excellence. 
be richer or more glowing than her imagery, yet her ; Independently of this uncertain criterion, fier different 
pictures are never overlaid with colour; and all her works will be differently estimated, as to their rela- 
delineations are clear and distinct. Many of her de- tive value, by different minds. But we hesitate not 
criptions are ornate even to gorgeousness ; but her ; to assert, that she has bequeathed to posterity many 
decorations are never idle; they are brought in either compositions, which the English language "will not 
to act as a foil to simple elegance, or to contrast with willingly let die." The music of her words has inter 
ftio anguisn of uefeated passion, and baffled hope. The woven itself with the national heart, and cannot fail to 
wtiolb tone of aer mind w'as poetical, and the most be breathed from the lips of our children's children. 



taste, tenderness, and elegance. To the most graceful 
and harmonious diction, she wedded themes of endless 
variety, — the outpourings of piety, and love, and friend- 
ship, — the delights of the past and of the future, — re- 
cords of household aflfections,— lays of patriotism, — and 
legends of history or romance. She has also given many 
beautiful and most delicate illustrations of Words- 
worth's favourite theory, regarding the subtle analogy 
existing between the external and moral world ; and 
which has embued the aspects of nature with some- 



POETICAL WORKS 



Ihr Platze aller meiner stillen Freuden, 
Euch lass ic)» hinter mir auf immcrdar I 

So ist des Geistes Ruf an mich ergangen, 
Mich treibt nichl eitles, irdisches Vei-langen. 

Die Jungfrau von OrleaitA. 
Long tinfic against oppression have 1 fought, 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and suffer'd bonds. 

Remorse, a Tragedy. 



The following Poem is intended to describe the 
mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of 
a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious perse- 
cutions of his own country in the 16th century, 
takes refuge with his child in a North American 
forest. The story is supposed to be related by 
himself amidst the wilderness which has afforded 
him an asylum. 

I. 

The voices of my home ! — I hear them still ! 
They have been with me through the dreamy 

night — 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight ! 
I hear them still, unchang'd: — though some 

from earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — 
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more 

bright ! 
Have died in others, — yet to me they come, 
Singing of boyhood back — the voices of my home ! 

II. 

They call me through this hush of woods, re- 
posing 
In the gray stillness of the summer morn, 
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing. 
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars 

are bom ; 
E'en as a fount's remer^ber'd gushings burst 
On the parch'd traveller in lis hour of thirst, 
E'en thus they huunt me with sweet sounds, till 
worn 



By quenchless longings, to my soul I say 
Oh ! for the dove's swift wings, that I might Zef- 
away, 

III. 

And find mine ark ! — yet whither "? — Imustbeat 
A yearning heart within me to the grave. 
I am of those o'er whom a breath of air — ■ 
Just darkening in its course the lake's bright 

wave. 
And sighing through the feathery canes(l)- 

hath power 
To call up shadows, in the silent hour, 
From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave ! 
So must it be! — These skies above me spread, 
Are they my own soft skies 1 — Ye rest not here, 

my dead ! 

IV. 

Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, 
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear, 
Save one ! — a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping 
High o'er one gentle head — ye rest not here ! — 
'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying, 
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing 
Through my own chesnut groves, which fill 

mine ear; 
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, 
And for their birth-place moan, as moans the 

ocean-shell.(2) 

V. 

Peace ! — I will dash these fond regrets to eariL, 
Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumberinii rain 



From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me 

birth, 
And lineage, and once home, — my native Spain ! 
My own bright land — my father's land — my 

child's ! 
What hath thy son brought from thee to the 

wilds 7 
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain, 
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze, 
A. blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, wo — thy 

gifts are these. 

VI. 

A blighted name ! — I hear the winds of morn — 
Their sounds are not of this ! — I hear the shiver 
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne 
From the high forest, when the light leaves qui- 
ver: 
Their sounds are not of this ! — the cedars, wa- 
ving, 
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving. 
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river ! 
What part hath mortal name, where God alone 
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart 
is known 1 

VII. 

Is it not much that I may worship Him, 
With nought my spirit's breathings to control, 
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim. 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 
From the far cataracts 1 — Shall I not rejoice 
That I have learn'd at last to know His voice 
From man's '? — I will rejoice! — my soaring soul 
Now hath redeem'd her birth-right of the day, 
And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfet- 
ter'd way ! 

VIII. 

And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee 
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark earnest eyes, 
Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see 
Pure through its depths, a thing without dis- 
guise; 
Thou that hast breath'd in slumber on my 

breast. 
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest, 
Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh before 

nie rise! 
[s it not much that I may guide thy prayer, 
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful 
air 7 

IX. 

Wny should 1 weep on thy bright head, my 

boyl 
Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt iiot dwell, 
Nor lift tiieir banner, with a warrior's joy, 
A.midst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell 



For Spain of old. — Yet what if rolling waves 
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves! 
Thou shalt not fee! thy bursting heart rebel 
As mine hath done ; nor bear what I nave borne, 
Casting in falsehood's mould rh' indignant brow 
of scorn. 

X. 

This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child! 
I have not sorrow'd, strugp;led, lived in vain — 
Hear me! magnificent and ancient wild; 
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main. 
As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim 

shade 
The flood's voice, and the wind's by swells per- 
vade; 
Hear me !— 'tis well to die, and not complain, 
Yet there are hours when the charged heart must 
speak, 
Ev'n in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break! 

XI. 

I see an oak before me, (3) it hath been 

The ci'own'd one of the woods ; and might have 

flung 
Its hundred arms to Heaven, still freshly green, 
But a wild vine around the stem hath clung. 
From branch to branch close wreaths of bond- 
age throwing. 
Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, 
Hath shrunk and died, those serpent-f-.ds 

among. 
Alas ! alas ! — what is it that I see 7 
An image of man's mind, land of my sires, witb 
thee! 

XII. 

Yet art thou lovely ! Song is on thy hills — 
Oh sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, 
That lull'd my boyhood, how your memory 

thrills 
The exile's heart, with sudden- wakening pain ! — 
Your sounds are on the rocks — that I might hear 
Once more the musicof the mountaineer! — 
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 
Floats out, and fills the solitary place 
With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic race, 

XIII. 

But there was silence one bright, golden day 
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear. 

yet lone. 
In the rich autumn light the .vineyards lay. 
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone , 
And the red grapes untrodden strew'd th« 

ground. 
And the free flocks unieiKJ.;.' I'oam'd around : 
Where was the pastoi J--v'h(n-e the j^jje's wild 

tone? 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Music and mirth were Imsli'd the hills among, 
While to the city's gates each hamlet pour'd its 
throng. 

XIV. 

Silence upon the mountains! — But within 
The city's gates a rush — a press — a swell 
Of multitudes their torrent way to win; 
And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, 
A dead pause following each — like that which 

parts 
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts 
Fast in the hush of fear: — knell after knell; 
And sounds of thickening steps, lilce thunder- 
rain, 
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing 
fane ! 

XV. 

What pageant's hour approach'd ! — The sullen 

gate 
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown 
Back to the day. And who, in mournful state, 
Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold-stone 1 
They that had learn'd, in cells of secret gloom, 
How sunshine is forgotten ! — They, to whom 
TJie very features of mankind were grown 
Things that bewilder'd! — O'er their dazzled 

sight. 
They lifted their wan hands, and cower'd before 

the light ! 

XVI. 

To this man brings his brother! — Some were 

there. 
Who with their desolation had entwined 
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair 
Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind 
The breast-plate on for fight: but brow and cheek 
Seemed theirs a torturing panoply to speak ! 
And there were some, from whom the very mind 
Had been wrung out : they smiled — oh ! start- 
ling smile 
Whence man's high soul is fled ! — where doth it 
sleep the while 1 

XVII. 

But onward moved the melancholy train, 
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. 
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain — 
Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry! 
Througli thousands, thousands of their race they 

moved — 
Oh! how unUke all others! — the beloved, 
The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye 
Grew fixed before them, while a people's breath 
Was hushed, and its one soul bound in tiie thought 

of death 1 



XVIII. 
It might be that amidst the countless throne, 
There swelled some heart with Pity's weiglif 

oppressed. 
For the wide stream of human love is strong 
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast 
Childhood is reared, and at whose knee the sigh 
Of its first prayer is breathed, she, too, was nigh. 
But life is dear, and the free footstep blessed. 
And home a sunny place, where each may fill 
Some eye with glistening smiles, — and therefore 

all were still — 

XIX. 

All still — ^youth, courage, strength! — a winter 

laid, 
A chain of palsy, cast on might and mind ! 
Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade. 
They stood, those breatliless masses of mankind; 
Still, as a frozen torrent! — but the wave 
Soon leaps to foaming freedom — they, the brave, 
Endured — they saw the martyr's place assigned 
In the red flames — whence is the withering spell 
That numbs each human pulse? — they saw, and 
thought it well. 

XX. 

And I, too, thought it well ! That very morn 
From a far land I came, yet round me clung 
The spirit of my own. No hand had torn 
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung 
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, 1 saw, 
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe 
I watched the fearful rites; and if there sprung 
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up, 
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poison- 
cup. 

XXI. 

But I was wakened as the dreamers waken 
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of diead 
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are 

taken, 
And they must battle till their blood is shed 
On their own threshold-floor. A path for light 
Through my torn breast was shattered by the 

might 
Of the swift thunder-stroke — and Freedom's 

tread 
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain. 
Making the blighted place all green with life agaju 

XXII. 

Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass 
Of cloud, o'ersweeping, without wind, the 6K , 
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass, 
And marked its victims vvi^h « tearless eya 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



They moved before me but as pictures, wrought 
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought, 
On the sharp edge of sad mortality, 
Till in nis place came one — oh! could it be? 
My friend, my heart's first friend! — and did I 
gaze on theel 

XXIII. 

On thee! with whom in boyhood I had played. 
At the grar-!-gatherings, by my native streams ; 
And to whf^se e^e my youthful soul had laid 
Bare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world of dream.s; 
And by whose side 'midst warriors I had stood, 
And in whose helm was brought — oh! earned 

with blood ! — 
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams 
Smote on my fevered brow! — Ay, years had 

passed, 
Severing our paths, brave friend ! — and thus we 

met at last ! 

XXIV. 
I see it still — the lofty mien thou borest^- 
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power ! 
The very look that once thou brightly worest 
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour, 
When we were girt by Indian how and spear, 
'Midst the white Andes — e'en as mountain deer, 
Hemmed in our camp — but through the javelin 

shower 
We rent our way, a tempest of despair ! 
—And thou — hadst thou but died with thy true 

brethren there ! 

XXV. 

I call the fond wish back — for thou hast perished 
More nobly far, my Alvar ! — making known 
The might of truth ;(4) and be thy memory che- 
rished 
With theirs, the thousands, that around her 

throne 
Have poured their lives out smiling, in that doom 
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb ! 
— Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, 
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread, 
Filling man's heart and home with records of the 
dead. 

XXVI. 

Thou Searcher of the Soul ! in whose dread aght 
Not the bold guilt alone, that mocks the skies, 
But the scarce-owned, un whispered thought of 

night. 
As a thing written v^'ith the sunbeam lies ; 
Tfiou know'st — whose eye through shade and 

dept.i can see, 
'I'bat this man's crime was but to worship thee, 



Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, 
The called of yore; wont by the Saviour's sida 
On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide. 

XXVII. 
For the strong spirit will at times awake. 
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay-abode ; 
And, born of thee, she may not always take 
Earth's accents for the oiacles of God; 
And e'en for this — O dust, whose mask is power ! 
Reed, that would be a scourge thy little hour! 
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, 
And therefore thou . destroyest ! — where wers 
flown 
Our hope, if man were left to man's decree alone i" 

XXVIII. 
But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze 
On him, my friend; while that swift moment 

threw 
A sudden freshness back on vanished days, 
Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue ; 
Calling the proud lime up, when first I stood 
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick 

blood 
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew, 
And he — his sword was like a brother's worn, 
That watchoe through the field his mother's young- 
est born. 

XXIX. 

But a lance met me in that day's career. 
Senseless I lay amidst th' o'ersweeping fight, 
Wakening at last — how full, how strangely clear, 
That scene on memory flashed ; — the shivery 

light, 
Moonlight, on broken shields — the plain of 

slaughter, 
The fountain-side — the low sweet sound of wa- 
ter — 
And Alvar bending o'er me — from the night 
Covering me with his mantle ! — all the past 
Flowed back — my soul's far chords all answered 
to the blast. 

XXX. 

Till, in that rush of visions, I became 
As one that by the bands of slumber wound, 
Lies with a powerless, but all-thrilhng frame. 
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound. 
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings 
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things ! 
Troubled e'en thus 1 stood, but chained and 

bound 
On that familiar form mine eye to keep — 
— Alas ! I might not fall upon his neck and 

weep ! 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



XXXI. 

He passed me — and what nexf? — I looked on 

two, 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place, 
Forthesame guilt — his sisters !(5) — Well I knew 
The beauty on those brows, though each young 

face 
Was changed — so deeply changed ! — a dun- 
geon's air 
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear, 
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race, 
Q,ueen-like Theresa ! radiant Inez ! — flowers 
So cherished I were ye then but reared for those 
dark hours ? 

XXXII. 

A mournful home, young sisters ! had ye left, 
With your lutes hanging hushed upon the wall, 
And silence round the aged man, bereft 
Of each glad voice, once answering to his call. 
Alas, that lonely father! doom'd to pine 
For sounds departed in his life's decline, 
And, 'midst the shadowing banners of his hall, 
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to 
shame !(G) 

XXXIII. 

And wo for you, 'midst looks and words of love, 
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long ! 
How had I seen you in your beauty move. 
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song! 
— Yot sat, e'en then, what seemed the crowd to 

shun. 
Half veiled upon the clear pale brow of one. 
And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong, 
Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery 

sway, 
Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids 



XXXIV. 

And if she mingled with the festive train, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Behold.s tlie dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar. 
Yet would she smile — and that, too, hath its 

smile — 
Circled with joy which reached her not the while. 
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war 
With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue 
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. 

XXXV. 

But the dnrk hours wring forth the hidden might 
Whicli had hiin bedded in tlie silent soul, 
A treasure all undreamt of; — as the night 
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll 



Unheard by day. It seemed as if her breast 
Had hoarded energies, till then suppressed 
Almost with pain, ana bursting from control. 
And finding first that hour their pathway free : 
— Could a rose brave the storm, such might her 
emblem be ! 

XXXVI. 

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hong 
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn. 
Was fled; and fire, like prophecy's had sprung 
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn - 
Pride — sense of wrong — ay, the frail heart is 

bound 
By these at times, even as with adamant round, 
Kept so from breaking ! — yet not thus upborne 
She moved, though some sustaining passion's 

wave 
Lifted her fervent soul — a sister for the brave! 

XXXVII. 

And yet, alas ! to see the strength which chngs 
Round woman in such hours ! — a mournful sight, 
Though lovely ! — an overflowing of the springs, 
The full springs of aflfection, deep as bright! 
And she, because her life is ever twined 
With other lives, and by no stormy wind 
May thence be shaken, and because the light 
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye 
Doth weep such passionate tears^— therefore she 
thus can die. 

XXXVIII. 

Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking 

scene. 
As through a triumph move ; and cast aside 
Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's 

mien, 
O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide. 
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth, 
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth, 
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified • 
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the 

past. 
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last. 

XXXIX. 

For thou hadst made nc deeper love a guest 
'Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which 
grows 
Between the nurtured of the same fond breast 
The sheltered of one roof; and thus it rose 
Twined in with life. — How is it, that the hours 
Of the same sport, tfie gathering early flovvers 
Round the same tree, the sharing one ropnse, 
And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soil 
From the heart's memory fade, in this woi^lda 
breath, so oft 7 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XL. 

But thee that treath had touched not ; thee, nor 

liim, 
The true in all things found ! — and thou wert 

blest 
Even then, that no remembered change could 

dim 
The perfect image of affection, pressed 
Like armour to thy bosom ! — thou hadst kept 
Watch by that brother's couch of pain, and wept. 
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when 

rest 
Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith 
Unto thy soul — one light, one hope ye chose — one 

death. 

XLI. 

So didst thou pass on brightly ! — ^but for her, 
Next in that path, how may her doom be spo- 
ken! 
— All merciful ! to think that such things were, 
And are, and seen by men with hearts un- 
broken ! 
To think of that fair girl, whose path had been 
So strewed with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene ! 
And whose quick glance came ever as a token 
Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice 
As a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods 
rejoice ! 

XLII. 

And she to die ! — she loved the laughing earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flow- 
ers ! 
— Was not her smile even as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers 1 
Yes ! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear. 
Which, oft unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flowed from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below, — blight, shadow, dull 
decay ! 

XLin. 

Could this change be? — the hour, the scene, 

where last 
I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind : 
■ A golden vintage-eve ; — the heats were pass- 
ed, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind. 
Her father sat, where gleamed the first faint star 
Through the lime-boughs; and with her light 

guitar, 
tshe, on the greensward at his feet reclined. 
In his calm face laughed up ; some shepljerd-lay 
ii^uiging, as childhood sings on the lone hills at 
p!a\. 



XLIV. 

And now — oh God ! the bitter fear of death, 
And sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread. 
Had grasped her 1 — paAting in her quick-drawi, 

breath. 
And in her white lips quivering ; — onward led. 
She looked up with her dim bewildered eyes. 
And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies, 
Far in their sultry southern azure spread. 
Glowing with joy, but silent! — still they smiled 
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trem 
bling child. 

XLV. 

Alas! that earth had all too strong a hold, 
Too fast, sweet Inez! on thy heart, whose bloom 
Was given to early love, nor knew how cold 
The hours which follow. There was one, with 

whom. 
Young as thouwert, and gentle, and untried, 
Thou mightest, perchance, unshrinkingly have 

died; 
But he was far away; — and with thy doom 
Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear, 
That all thy slight frame shook with its cold mor*- 

tal fear! 

XLVL 

No aid! — thou too didst pass! — and all had 

passed. 
The fearful — and the desperate — and the 

strong ! 
Some like the bark that rushes with the blast. 
Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along. 
And some as men, that have but one more field 
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield, 
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the 

throng 
Rolled on, and bore me with their living tide 
Even as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. 

XLVIL 

Wave swept on wave. We reached a stately 

square, 
Decked for the rites. An altar stood on high. 
And gorgeous, in the midst. A place for prayei, 
And praise, and offering. Could the earth sup- 

ply 

No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all 
Which on her sunny lap unheeded falH 
No fair young firstling of the flock to die, 
As when before their God the Patriarchb stood ? 
— Look down! man brings thee, Heaven! his 
brother's guiltless blood ! 

XLVIIl. 
Hear its voice, 'hear ! — a cry goes up to thee, 
From the stained sod ;— make thou thy judg- 
ment known 



THE FOREST (SANCTUARY. 



On Iiim, the shedJer!— let his portion be 
The fear that walks at midnight— give the moan 
In tlie wind haunting him a jjower to say 
" Where is thy brother?" — and the stars a ray 
To search and shake his spirit, when alone 
With the dread splendour of their burning eyes! 
-So shall earth own thy will — mercy, not sacri- 
fice: 

XLIX. 

Sounds of triumphant praise ! — the mass was 

sung — 
— Voices that die not might have poured such 

strains ! 
Through Salem's towers might that proud chant 

have rung, 
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains, 
Had quelled her foes ! — so full it swept, a sea 
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolhng free! 
Oft when the winds, as through resounding 

fanes. 
Hath filled the choral forests with its power, 
Some deep tone brings me back the music of that 

hour. 



It died away; — the incense-cloud was driven 
Before the breeze — the words of doom were 

sai'^; 
And the sun faded mournfully from heaven, 
— He faded mournfully ! and dimly red. 
Parting in clouds from those that looked their 

last, 
And sighed — " Farewell, thou sun !" — Eve 

glowed and passed — 
Night — midnight and the moon — came forth 

and shed 
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled 
spot — 
Save one — a place of death — and there men slum- 
bered not. 

LI. 

'Twas not within the city(7) — but in sight 
Of the snow-crowned sierras, freely sweeping, 
Witli many an eagle's eyrie on the height. 
And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peeping 
Far off: and vales between, and vineyards lay, 
Willi sound and gleam of waters on their way. 
And chesnut-woods, that girt the happy sleep- 
ing, 
In many a peasant-home ! — the midnight sky 
Brought softly that rich world round those who 
came to die. 

LII. 

The «"arkly-glorious midnight sky of Spain, 
Burning with stars! — What had the torches' 
glare 



To do beneath that Temple, and profane 
Its holy radiance? — By their wavering flare, 
I saw beside the pyres — I see tliee now, 
O bright Theresa! with thy lifted brow. 
And thy clasped hands, and dark eyes filled with 

prayer ! 
And thee, and Inez ! bowing thy fair head, 
And mantling up thy face, all colourless with 
dread ! 

LIII. 

And Alvar, Alvar ! — I beheld thee too, 
Pale, steadfast, kingly ; till thy clear glance fell 
On tha^ young sister ; then perturbed it grew 
And all t!iy labouring bosom seemed to swell 
With painful tenderness. Why came I there, 
That troubled image of my frieVid to bear 
Thence, for my after- years? — a thing to dwell 
In my heart's core, and on the darkness rise, 
Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful 



eyes i 



LIV. 



Why came I ? oh ! the heart's deep mystery !- 

Why 
In man's last hour doth vain affection's gaze 
Fix itself down on struggling agony, 
To the dimm'd eye-balls freezing, as theyglazel 
It might be — yet the power to will seemed o'er — 
That my soul yearn'd to hear his voice ouca 

more ! 
But mine was fettered ! mute in strong amaze, 
I watched his features as the night-wind blew. 
And torch-light or the moon's passed o'er their 

marble hue. 

LV. 

The trampling of a steed I — a tall white steed, 
Rending his fiery way the crowds among — 
A storm's way through a forest — came at speed, 
And a wild voice cried " Inez !" Swift she flung 
The mantle from her face, and gazed around, 
With a faint shriek at that familiar sound, 
And from his seat a breathless rider sprung, 
And dashed off fiercely those who came to part, 
And rushed to that pale girl, and clasped hci to his 
heart. 

LVI. 

And for a moment all around gave way 
To that full burst of passion! — on his breast, 
Like a bird panting yet from fear she lay. 
But blessed — in misery's very lap — yet blest'- 
Oh love, love, strong as death ! — from suca au 

hour 
Pressing out joy by thine immortal power, 
Holy and fervent love' had earth but rest 
For thee and thine, th^s world were all to fairJ 
How could we thence be weaned ♦» die without 

despair 7 



LVII. 

But she — as falls a willow from the storm, 
O'er its own river streaming — thus reclin'd 
On the 3'outh's bosom hung her fragile form, 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck — with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold, 
As if nought earthly might th' embrace unbind ! 
Alas! a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to 
kiU! 

LVIII. 
Brief rest I upon the turning billow's height, 
A strange sweet moment of some heavenly 

strain, 
Floating between the savage gusts of night. 
That sweep the seas to foam! Soon dark again 
The hour — the scene — th' intensely present, 

rush'd 
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gushed 
Like blood-drops from a victim; with swift rain 
Bathing the bosom where she lean'd that hour, 
As if her life would melt into th' o'erswelling 

shower. 

LIX. 

But he, whose arm sustained her ! — oh ! I knew 
'Twas vain, and yet he hoped ! — he fondly 

strove 
Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo. 
As hfe might yet be hers ! — A dream of love 
Which could not look upon so fair a thing, 
Remembering how like hope, like joy, like 

spring, 
Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move, 
And deem that men indeed, in very truth, 
lyould mean the sting of death for her soft flower- 
ing youth ! 

LX. 

He wooed her back to life. — "Sweet Inez, live! 

My blessed Inez! — visions have beguil'd 

Thy heart — abjure them ! — thou wert formed to 

give, 
And to find joy; and hath not sunshine smiled 
Around thee ever? Leave me not, mine own! 
Or earth will grow too dark! — for thee alone, 
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest! from a child. 
And borne thine image with me o'er the sea, 
J"'hy soft voice in my soul! — Speak — Oh ! yet live 

for me !" 

LXI. 

She look'd up wildly; there were anxious eyes 
Waiting that look — sad eyes of troubled thought, 
Alvar's — Theresa's! — Did her childhood rise, 
VVitli all its nure and home-aifect.ions fraught, 



In the brief glance 1 — She clasped her hanas- 

the strife 
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, 
It seemed as if a reed so slight and weak 
Must, in the rending storm not quiver only - 

break! 

LXII. 

And thus it was— the young cheek flushed and 

faded. 
As the swift blood in currents came and went, 
AnJ hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded, 
And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent 
Through its white fluttering lids. Then trem- 
blings passed 
O'er the frail form, that shook it, as the blast 
Shakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent 
Its way to peace — the fearful way unknown — 
Pale in love's arms she lay — she — what had loved 
was gone ! 

LXIII. 

Joy for thee, trembler I — thou redeemed one, joy ! 
Young dove set free! earth, ashes, soulless clay, 
Remained for baflled vengeance to destroy; 
— Thy chain was riven ! — nor hadst thou cast 

away 
Thy hope in thy last hour ! — though love was 

there 
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from pra3'er, 
And life seemed robed in beautiful array. 
Too fair to leave! — but this might be forgiven. 
Thou wert so richly crowned with precious gifts 

of Heaven ! 

LXIV. 

But wo for him who felt the heart grow still, 
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain 
Breaking on his ! — Scarce could the mortal chili 
Of the hushed bosom, ne'er to heave again, 
And all the silence curdling round the eye. 
Bring home the stern belief that she could die, 
That she indeed could die ! — for vvild and vain 
As hope might be — his soul had hoped — 'twas 

o'er — 
Slowly his failing arms dropped from the form they 

bore. 

LXV. 

They forced liim from that spot. — It might be 

well, 
That the fierce, reckless words by anguish wrung 
From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell. 
Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents flung. 
Were marked as guilt. — Tlierc are, who note 

these things 
Against the smitten heart ; its breaking strings 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



— On whose low tlirillsonce gentle music hung — 
With a rude hand of touch unholy trying, 
And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange 
tones replying. 

LXVI. 

But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair! 
Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust ; 
I saw your features by the torch's glare, 
And they were brightening with a heavenward 

trust ! 
I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay. 
Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away, 
And peace was there — the calmness of the just ! 
And, bending down the slumberer's brow to kiss, 
Thy rest is won," he said; — "sweet sister! 

praise for this !" 

LXVII. 

I started as from sleep ; — yes ! he had spoken — 
A breeze had troubled memory's hidden source ! 
At once the torpor of my soul was broken — 
Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. 
—There are soft breathings in the southern wind, 
That so your ice-chains, ye streams! unbind, 
And free the foaming swiftness of your course ! 
— I burst from those that held me back, and fell 
Ev'n on his neck, and cried — " Friend, brother ! 
fare thee well !" 

LXVIII. 

Did he not say " Farewell 1" — Alas ! no breath 
Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the 

throng 
Told that the mysteries in the face of death 
Had from their eager sight been veiled too long. 
And we were parted as the surge might part 
Those that would die together, true of heart. 
— His hour was come — but in mine anguish 

strong. 
Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea, 
Blindly I rushed away from that which was to be. 

LXIX. 

Away — away I rushed ; — but swift and high 
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew, 
Till the transparent darkness of the sky 
Flushed to a blood-red mantle in their hue; 
And, phantom-hke, the kindling city seemed 
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they 

streamed. 
With their wild splendour chasing me ! — I knew 
The death-work was begun — I veiled mine eyes, 
iTet stopped in spell-bound fear to catch the victims' 

cries. 

LXX. 

What heard I thenl — a ringing shriek of pain, 
Such as for ever haunts the tortur'd ear 1 
C 



I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain 
Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear ! 
— The rich, triumphal tones! — I know them well, 
As they came floating with a breezy swell ^ 
Man's voice was there — a clarion voice to choo? 
In the mid-battle — ay, to turn the flyintr — 
Woman's — that might have sung of Heaven be- 
side the dying I 

LXXI. 

It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing. 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream of melody could spring 
Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human wo ! 
Alvar! Theresa ! — what is deep? what strong? 
God's breath within the soul ! — It filled that song 
From your victorious voices ! — but the glow 
On the hot air and lurid skies increased — 
— Faint grew the sounds — more faint — I listened— 
they had ceased ! 

LXXII. 

And thou indeed hadst perished, my soul's friendi 
I might form other ties — but thou alone 
Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, 
By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown ! 
Others might aid me onward: — Thou and I 
Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, 
Once flowpj-ing — never more! — And thou wer! 

gone! 
Who could give back my youth, my spirit free. 
Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me i 

LXXIII. 

And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave ! 
I could not weep: — there gathered round thy 

name 
Too deep a passion ! — thou denied a grave ! 
Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame ! 
Had I not known thy heart from childhood's 

time? 
Thy heart of hearts 1 — and couldst thou die foi- 

crime ? 
— No ! had all earth decreed that death of shajne. 
I would have set, against all earth's decree, 
Th' unalienable trust of my firm soul in thee ! 

LXXIV. 

There are swift hours in life — strong, rushiiij; 

hours. 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 
They shake down things that stood as rocks anc 

towers 
Unto th' undoubting mind; — they pour in lig{[> 
Where it but startles — like a burst of day 
For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way ; 
They sweep the colouyiiig mists from off out 

sight. 



u> 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



They touch with fire, thought's graven page, the 
roll 
ts lamped with past years — and lo! it shrivels as a 
bcroll 1 

LXXV. 

And this was of such hours ! — the sudden flow 
Of my soul's tide seemed vi^helming me; the 

glare 
Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, 
Scorched up my heart witli breathless thirst for 

air. 
And solitude and freedom. It had been 
Well with me then, in some vast desert scene. 
To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear 
On with them, wildly questioning the sky, 
Fiercely th' untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny. 

LXXVl. 

I would have called, adjuring the dark cloud; 
To the most ancient Heavens I would have said 
— " Speak to me ! show me truth !"(8) — through 

night aloud 
I would have cried to him, the newly dead, 
■' Come back! and show me truth!" — My spirit 

seemed 
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teemed 
With such pent storms of thought ! — again I 

fled— 
1 fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, 
Scarce conscious when 1 paused, entering a lonely 

fane. 

LXXVIl. 

A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast! 
Silence was round the sleepers, whom its floor 
Shut in the grave ; a shadow of the past, 
A memory of the sainted steps that wore 
Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seemed to brood 
Ijike mist upon the stately solitude, 
A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er 
Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men. 
And all was hushed as night in some deep Alpine 
glen. 

LXXVIII. 

More hushed, far more! — for there the wind 
sweeps by, 

Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play ! 

Here a strange echo made my very sigh 

Seem for the place too much a sound of day! 

Too much my footstep broke the moonlight, 
fading, 

Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervad- 
ing 

And I stood still: — prayer, chant, had died away, 

Vet past me floated a funereal breath 
»■ )f incense. — I stood still— as before God and death! 



LXXIX. 

For thick ye girt me round, ye long-departed \9^ 
Dust — imaged form — with cross, and shield, and 

crest ; 
It seems as if your ashes would have started, 
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! 
Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore 
Bear to your thrilling presence what / bore 
Of wrath — doubt — anguish — battling in the 

breast ! 
I could have poured out words, on that i.iale air, 
To make your proud tombs ring : — no, no ! I could 

not there! 

LXXX. 

Not 'midst those aisles, through which a thou- 
sand years 
Mutely as clouds and reverently had swept ; 
Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears 
And kneeling votaries on their marble kept ! 
Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom 
And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb ! 
And you, ye dead I — for in that faith ye slept, 
Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my 
heart, 
Which could not there be loosed. — I turned me lo 
depart. 

LXXXl. 

I turned — what glimmered faintly on my sight, 
Faintly, yet brightening, as a wreath of snow 
Seen through dissolving haze ! — The moon, the 

night, 
Had waned, and dawn poured in; — gray, shar 

dowy, slow, ' 

Yet day-spring still ! — a solemn hue it caught, 
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow , 
And soft, and sad, that colouring gleam was 

thrown. 
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone. 

LXXXII. 

TAyform, thou Son of God! — a wrathful deep, 
With foam, and cloud, and tempest, round thee 



And such a weight of night! — a night, when 

sleep 
From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. 
A bark showed dim beyond thee, with its mas< 
Bowed, and its rent sail shivering to the blast; 
But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread. 
Thou, .as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy sea 
Through rushing winds which left a silent path 

for thee ! 

LXXXIII, 

So still thy white robes fell ! no breath of air 
Within their long and slumberous folds b ad sway! 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair 
From thy clear brow flowed droopingly away ! 
Dark were the heavens above thee, Saviour ! — 

dark 
The gulfs, Deliverer! round the straining bark! 
But thou ! — o'er all thine aspect and array 
Was poured one stream of pale, broad, silvery 

light— 
-T2iou wert the single star of that all-shrouding 

night ! 

LXXXIV. 

Aid for one sinking ! — Thy lone brightness 

gleamed 
On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave, 
With its worn, fearful, human look that seemed 
To cry through surge and blast — " I perish — 

save!" 
Not to the winds — not vainly! — thou wert nigh. 
Thy hand was stretched to fainting agony, 
Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave ! 
O thou that art the life ! and yet didst bear 
Too much of mortal wo to turn from mortal prayer ! 

LXXXV. 

But it was not a thing to rise on death, 
With its remembered hght, that face of thine, 
Redeemer ! dimmed by this world's misty breath, 
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divinel 
— Oh! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye. 
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty! 
And the pale glory of the brow ! — a shrine 
Where power sat veiled yet shedding softly 
round 
What told that tho7i couldst be but for a time un- 
crowned ! 

LXXXVI. 

And more than all, the Heaven of that sad smile ! 
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust ! 
Did not that look, that very look, erewhile, 
Pour its o'ershadowed beauty on the dusti 
Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloud 

hung o'er theel 
Surely thou wert! — my heart grew hushed be- 
fore thee. 
Sinking with all its passions, as the gust 
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way: — 
What had I there to do, but kneel, and weep, 
and pray'? 

LXXXVII. 

Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cry. 
Amidst the dead — " By that full cup of wo, 
Pressed from the fruitage of mortality, 
Saviour ! for thee — give light ! that I may know 
If by thy will, in thine all-healing name, 
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame. 
Aid early death — and say, if this be so, i 



Where then is mercy 1 — whither shall we flee 
So unallied to hope, save by our hold on theel 

LXXXVIII. 

"But didst thou not, the deep sea brightly 

treading. 
Lift from despair that struggler with the wave') 
And wert thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shed 

ding. 
Beheld, a weeper at a mortal's grave 1 
And is this weight of anguish, which they bine 
On life, this searing to the quick of mind. 
That but to God its own free path would crave 
This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth, 
Thy will indeed 1 — Give light ! that I may know 

the truth! 

LXXXIX. 

" For my sick soul is darkened unto death. 
With shadows from the sufl:ering it hath seen. 
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith 
Sink from beneath me — whereon shall 1 lean 'l 
— Oh! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigl 
Of the dust's anguish! if hke man to die, 
— And earth round him shuts heavily — hatt 

been 
Even to thee bitter, aid me ! — guide me ! — turn 
My wild and wandering thoughts back from thei/ 

starless bourne !" 

XC. 

And cahn'd I rose: — but how the while had 

risen 
Morn's orient sun, dissolving mist and shade I 
— Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, oi 

prison. 
In the bright world such radiance might pej- 

vadel 
It fill'd the fane, it mantled the pale form 
Which rose before me through the pictured 

storm. 
Even the gray tombs it kindled, and array'd 
With life! — how hard to see thy race begun. 
And think man wakes to grief, wakening to thee, 

O sun ! 

XCI. 
I sought my home again : — and thou, my chile 
There at my play beneath yon ancient pine. 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter(lO) natt 

beguil'd 
A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine , 
Thou in thy mother's arms, a babe, did meet 
My coming with young smiles, whiclr yet. 

though sweet, 
Seem'd on my soul all mournfully to shine, 
And ask a happier heritage lor thee, 
Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see. 



12 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XCII. 

Now sport, for thou art free — the bright birds 

chasing, 
Whose wings waft star-like gleams from tree 

to tree ; 
Or with the fawn, thy swift wood-playmate 

racing. 
Sport on, my joyous child! for thou art free' 
Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart, 
And inly vow'd, for thee a better part 
To choose ; that so thy sunny bursts of glee 
Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen 

wo, 
But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on — as now 

they flow. 

XCIII. 

Thou hast a rich world round thee : — Mighty 

shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head, 
With the light melting through their high ar- 
cades 
As through a pillared cloister's :(11) but the 

dead 
Sleep not beneath; nor doth the sunbeam pass 
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass; 
Yet thou, by fount and forest-murmur led 
To worship, thou art blest !— to thee is shown 
c^arth in her holy pomp, decked for her God alone. 



PART SECOND. 



Wie diese treue liebe Seele 

Von ihrem Glauben voll, 
, Der ganz allein 
Hit selig machend ist, sich heilig quale, 
Dass sie den liebsten Mann verloren halten soli! 

Faust. 
I never shall smile more, but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my saul, 

Wilson. 



I. 

Bring me the sounding of the torrent-water, 
With yet a nearer swell — fresh breeze, 

awake !(12) 
And river, darkening ne'er with hues of slaughter 
Thy wave's pure silvery green, — and shining 

lake, 
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone 
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone! 
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make 
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare, 
"fVMired by such tones, to look back on a dun- 

Sfivjn's air I 



II. 

Oh, Indian hunter of the desert's race ! 
That with the spear at times, or bended bow. 
Dost cross my footsteps in the flery chase 
Of the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe; 
Thou that beside the red night-fire thou heapest 
Beneath the cedars and the star-light sleepest, 
Thou knowest not, wanderer — never mayest 

thou know ! — 
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers 

earth. 
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' 

mirth. 

III. 

There, fettered down from day, to think the 

while 
How bright in Heaven the festal sun is glowing. 
Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile. 
Flush like the rose; and how the streams are 

flowing 
With sudden sparkles through the shadowy 

grass. 
And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass : 
And how the rich dark summer-trees are bowing 
With their full foliage ; — this to know, and pine 
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot- - 

'twas mine. 

IV. 

Wherefore was this^ — Because my soul haiJ 

drawn 
Light from the book whose words are graved in 

light! 
There, at its well-head, had I found the dawn. 
And day, and noon of freedom: — but too bright 
It shines on that which man to man hath given. 
And called the truth — the very truth, from Hea- 
ven! 
And therefore seeks he, in his brother's sight. 
To cast the mote; and therefore strives to bind 
With his strong chains to earth, what is noi 
earth's — the mind ! 

V. 

It is a weary and a bitter task 

Back from the lip the burning word to keep, 

And to shut out Heaven's air with falsehood's 

mask. 
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap 
Indignant feelings — making even of thouo-ht 
A buried treasure, which may but be sought 
When shadows are abroad — and night — ana 

sleep. 
I might not brook it long — and thus was thrown 
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone. 




VI. 

And I a child of danger, whose delights 
Were on dark hills and many-sounding seas — 
I, that amidst the Cordillera heights 
Had given Castilian banners to the breeze, 
And the full circle of the rainbow seen 
There, on the snows ;(13) and in my country 

been 
A mountain wanderer, from the Pyrenees 
To the Morena crags — how left I not 
Life, or the soul's life quenched, on that sepulchral 

spot? 

VII. 

Because Thou didst not leave me, oh, my God ! 
Thou wert with those that bore the truth of old 
Into the deserts from the oppressor's rod. 
And made the caverns of the rock their fold, 
And in the hidden chambers of the dead, 
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed, 
And met when stars met, by their beams to hold 
The free heart's communing with thee, — and 

Thou 
'?ifert in the midst, felt, owned — the strengthener 

then as now! 

VIII. 
Yet once I sank. Alas ! man's wavering mind ! 
Wherefore and whence the gusts that o'er it 

blowl 
How they bear with them, floating uncombined, 
The shadows of the past, that come and go. 
As o'er the deep the old long-buried things, 
Which a storm's working to the surface brings ! 
Is the reed shaken, and must we be so. 
With every wind! — So, Father! must we be. 
Till we can fix undimmed our steadfast eyes on 
Thee. 

IX. 

Once my soul died within me. What had 

thrown 
That sickness o'er it? — Even a passing thought 
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'er- 

grown. 
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought! 
Perchance the damp roof's water-drops, that fell 
Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell, 
intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught 
Some tone from memory, of the music, swelling 
Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky 

dwelling. 

X. 

But so my spirit's fevered longings wrought. 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint and sound. 
That from the darkness of the walls they 

brought 
A loved scene round ine, visibly around. (14) 



Yes! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue b\ 

hue, 
Like stars from midnight, through the gloom i) 

grew, 
That haunt of youth, hope, manhood! — till the 

bound 
Of my shut cavern seemed dissolved, and I 
Girt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of sky 

XI. 

I looked — and lo ! the clear broad river flowing. 
Past the old Moorish ruin on the steep. 
The lone tower dark against a heaven all glow- 
ing, 
Like seas of glass and fire ! — I saw the sweep 
Of glorious woods far down the mountain side. 
And their still shadows u the gleaming tide. 
And the red evening on iu> Waves asleep; 
And 'midst the scene — oh ! more than all — there 
smiled 
My child's fair face, and hers, the mother of mv 
child! 

XII. 

With their soft eyes of love and gladness raisf d 
Up to the flushing sky, as when we stood 
Last by that river, and in silence gazed 
On the rich world of sunset : — but a flood 
Of sudden tenderness my soul oppressed. 
And I rushed forward with a yearning breast. 
To clasp — alas ! a vision I — Wave and wood. 
And gentle faces, lifted in the light 
Of day's last hectic blush, all melted from n-v 
sight. 

XIII. 

Then darkness ! oh! th' unutterable glocm 
That seemed as narrowing round me, makmg 

less 
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bl'oom. 
That bright dream vanished from my loneliness 
It floated off", the beautiful ! — yet left 
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bererl, 
I lay down, sick with passion's vain excess. 
And prayed to die. — How oft ".vould sorrow 

weep 
Her weariness to death, if he might come likf 

sleep ! 

XIV. 
But I was roused — and how? — It is no talo 
Even 'midst thy shades, thou wilderniss, to tell 
I would not have my boy's young clicck made 

pale, 
Nor haunt his sunny rest with wh.it I k fell 
In that drear prison-house. — His eye nmst gx ^« 
More dark with thought, more earai'Kt his liij; 

brow. 
More high his heart in youthful strcu'rih rniis* 

swell : 



»4 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



So shall it fitly burn when all is told : — j In fair sierras, hiding their deep springs, 

Let childl ood^i's radiant mist the free child yet en- And traversed but by storms, or sounding eagles 
fold ! wings. 



XV. 

ft is enough that through such heavy hours, 
As wring us by our fellowship of clay, 
I lived, and undegraded. We have powers 
To snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away ! 
Shall the wild Indian, for his savage fame. 
Laugh and expire, and shall not Truth's high 

name 
Bear up her martyrs with all-conquering sway? 
It is enough that Torture may be vain — 
i had seen Alvar die — the strife was won from 
Pain. 

XVI. 

. And faint not, heart of man ! though years wane 

slow! 
There have been those that from the deepest 

caves, 
And cells of night, and fastnesses, below 
The stormy dashing of the ocean-waves, 
Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have 

nursed 
A quenchless hope, and watched their time, and 

burst 
On the bright day, like wakeners from the 

graves ! 
I was of such at last ! — unchained I trod 
This green earth, taking back my freedom from 

my Goil ! 

XVII. 

That was an hour to send its fadeless trace 
Down life's far sweeping tide ! — A dim, wild 

night. 
Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon's face. 
Yet how my heart leaped in her blessed light ! 
The shepherd's light —the sailor's on the sea — 
The hunter's homeward from the mountains 

free, 
Where its lone smile makes tremulously bright 
The thousand streams ! — I could but gaze 

through tears — 
)h 1 what a sight is Heaven, thus first beheld for 

years ! 

XVIIL 

The rolling clouds ! — they have the whole blue 

space 
Above to sail in — all the dome of sky! 
Mj soul shot with them in their breezy race 
O'er star and gloom I — but [ had yet to fly. 
As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot. 
And strange, I knew — the sunbeam knew it 

not; — 
VVildest of all the savage glens that lie 



XIX. 
Ay, and I met the storm there ! — I had gained 
The covert's heart with swift and stealthy 

tread : 
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rained 
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head ; 
A moan — a hollow gust — and there I stood 
Girt witii majestic night, and ancient wood, 
And foaming water. — Thither might have fled 
The mountain Cliristian with his faith of yore 
When At'ric's,' tambour shook the ringing western 

shore ! 

XX. 

But through the black ravine the storm came 

swelling — 
Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast ! 
In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling, 
Like plumes upon the path of battle cast ! 
A rent oak thunder'd down beside my cave — 
Booming it rush'd, as booms a deep sea-wave ; 
A falcon soar'd ; a startled wild-deer pass'd ; 
A far-off bell toll'd faintly through the-roar— 
How my glad spirit swept forth with the winds 

once more ! 

XXI. 

And with the arrowy lightnings ! — for they 

flashed. 
Smiting the branches in their fitful play, 
And brightly shivering where the torrents dashed 
Up, even to crag and eagle's nest, their spray ! 
And there to stand amidst the pealing strife, 
The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life 
And all the mountain-voices on their way, — 
Was it not joy 1 — 'twas joy in rushing might. 
After those years that wove but one long dead ol 

night ! 

XXIL 
There came a sofl.er hour, a lovelier moon, 
And lit me to my home of youth again. 
Through the dim chesnut shade, where oft at 

noon. 
By the fount's flashing burst, my head had lain, 
In gentle sleep: but now I passed as one 
That may not pause where wood-streams whis- 
pering run. 
Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain, 
Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind, 
The foe's quick rustling step close on the leaves 
behind. 

XXIII. 

My home of youth ! — oh ! if indeed to part 
With the soul's loved ones be a mournful thin?, 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



15 



When vve go forth in buoyancy of heart, 
And hetvring all the glories of our spring 
For life to breathe on, — is it less to meet, 
When these are faded 1 — who shall call it sweet 1 
— Even though love's mingling tears may haply 

bring 
Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers 
f each us liow much is lost of all that once was 



XXIV. 

Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow. 
Nor llie green earth, nor yet the laughing sky, 
Nor the faint flower-scents, (15) as they come 

and go 
In the soft air, like music wandering by ; 
— Oh ! not by these, th' unfailing, are we taught 
How time and sorrow on our frames have 

wrought, 
But by the saddened eye, the darkened brow. 
Of kindred aspects, and the long dim gaze. 
Which tells us we are changed, — how changed 

from other days ! 

XXV. 
Before my father — in my place of birth , 
I stood an alien. On the very floor 
Which oft had trembled to my boyish mirth. 
The love that reared me, knew my face no more ! 
There hung the antique armour, helm and crest. 
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast, 
There drooped the banner, with the marks it bore 
Of Paynim spears ; and I, the worn in frame 
And heart, what there was 1 1 — another and the 



XXVI. 

Then bounded in a boy, with clear dark eye — 
— How should he know his father 1 — when we 

parted. 
From the soft cloud which mantles infimcy. 
His soul, just wakening into wonder, darted 
Its first looks round. Him followed one, the bride 
Of my young days, the wife how loved and tried ! 
Her glance met mine — I could not speak — she 

started 
With a bewildered gaze ; — until there came 
Tears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her 

name. 

XXVII. 

She knew me then ! — I murmured " Leonor .'" 
And her heart answ,ered ! — oh ! the voice is 

known 
Fiist from all else, and swiftest to restore 
Love's buried images with one low tone. 
That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is 

faded. 



And the brow heavily with thought o'ershailed, 
And all the brightness from the aspect gone ! 
— Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was fled. 
Weeping as those may weep, that meet in wo and 
dread. 

XXVIII. 

For there we might not rest. Alas ! to leave 
Those native towers, and know that they mus> 

fall 
By slow decay, and none remain to grieve 
When the weeds clustered on the lonely wall ' 
We were the last — my boy and I — the last 
Of a long line which brightly thence had passed '. 
My father blessed me as I left his hall — 
— With his deep tones and sweet, though full 

of years. 
He blessed me there, and bathed my child's young 

head with tears. 

XXIX. 

I had brought sorrow on his gray hairs down, 
And cast the darkness of my branded name 
(For so he deemed it) on the clear renown, 
My own ancestral heritage of fame. 
And yet he blessed me ! — Father ! if the diBt 
Lie on those lips benign, my spirit's trust 
Is to behold thee yet, where grief and shame 
Dim the bright day no more; and thou wilt know 
That not through guilt thy son thus bowed thine 
age with wo ! 

XXX. 

And thou, my Leonor! that unrepining, 
If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me. 
When stars — the stars that earliest rise — are 

shining. 
How their soft glance unseals each thought of 

thee ! 
For on our flight they smiied ; — their dewy rays, 
Through the last olives, lit thy tearful gaze 
Back to the home we never more might see ; 
So passed we on, like earth'i^ first exiles, turning 
Fond looks where hung the sword above their Eden 

burning. 

XXXl. 

It was a wo to say — " Farewell, my Spam 
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell !" 
— 1 could have died upon the battle plain 
For thee, my country! but I might not dweil 
In thy sweet vales, at peace. — The voice oi soi.^ 
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along 
The citron's glow is caught from shade and d»il, 
But what are these 1 — upon thy flowery sod 
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts :>a/ 
to God ! 



16 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XXXII. 
O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep ! 
—Strange heart of man ! that e'en 'midst wo 

swells high, 
When through the foam he sees his proud bark 

sweep, 
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky ! 
Yes! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind; 
His spirit rises with the rising wind ; 
For, wedded to the far futurity, 
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main 
S<;ems rushing, like his hope, some happier shore 
to gain. 

XXXIII. 

Not thus is woman. Closely her still heart 
Doth twine itself with e'en each lifeless thing, 
Which, long remembered, seemed to bear its part 
In her calm joys. For ever would she clinoTj 
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth 
Where she hath loved, and given her children 

birth. 
And heard their first sweet voices. There may 

Spring 
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf, 
Bui hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell 

grief. 

XXXIV. 

I looked on Leonor, and if there seemed 
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise. 
In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleamed. 
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes. 
Misty with tender gloom ; I called it nought 
But the fond exile's pang, a lingering thought 
Of her own vale, with all its melodies 
Ant. Jiving light of streams. Her soul would 
rest 
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gor- 
geous west ! 

XXXV. 

Oh ! could we live in visions ! could we hold 
, Delusion faster, longer, to our breast. 
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold, 
That which we see not, and are therefore blest! 
But they, our loved and loving, they to whom 
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom, 
Their looks and accents, unto ours addressed, 
Have been a language of familiar tone 
Tjo long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and un- 
known. 

XXXVI. 

I told my heart 'twas but the exile's wo. 
Which pressed on that sweet bosom; — I de- 
ceived 
My heart out half: — a whisper fiint and lov/, 
Haunting it ever, and at times believed, 



Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seem 
Like those that dream, and know the while they 

dream, 
'Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved, 
And troubled while bright phantoms round them 

play, 

By a dim sense that all will float and fade away I 

XXXVII. 

Yet, as if chasing joy, I wooed the breeze, 
To speed me onward with the wings of morn. 
— Oh ! far amidst the solitary seas, 
Which were not made for man, what man hatn 

borne. 
Answering their moan with his! — what thou 

didst bear. 
My lost and loveliest ! while that S3cret care 
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn 
By its dull brooding weight, gave way at last, 
Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast ! 

XXXVIII. 

For unto thee, as through all change, revealed 
Mine inward being lay. In other eyes 
I had to bow me yet, and make a shield, 
To fence my burning bosom, of disguise ; 
By the still hope sustained, ere long to v.' in 
Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within, 
My thoughts unfettered to their source might 

rise, 
Like songs and scents of morn. — But thou dids» 

look 
Through all my soul, and thine even unto fainting 

shook. 

XXXIX. 

Fallen, fallen, I seemed — yet, oh! not less be- 
loved. 
Though from thy love was plucked the early 

pride. 
And harshly, by a gloomy faith reproved, 
And seared with shame! — though each youmr 

flower had died, 
There was the root, — strong, living, not the les-' 
That all it yielded now was bitterness ; 
Yet still such love as quits not misery's side, 
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, 
Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic face. 

XL. . 

Yes! thou hast followed me through fear and 

flight; 
Thou wouldst have followed had my patliwaj 

led 
Even to the scaffold ; had the flashing light 
Of the raised axe made strong mi^n si nnk wit}; 

dread, 



THE FOREST SANCTUAUf. 



17 



....\.. 



Thou, 'midst the hush of thousands wouldst have 

been 
With thy clasped hands beside me kneeling seen, 
And meekly bowing to the sliame thy head — 
— The shame! — oh! making beautiful to view 
The might of human love — fair thing! so bravely 

true! 

XLI. 

There was thine agony — to love so well 
Where fear made love life's chastener. — Here- 
tofore 
Whate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell. 
Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soar 
Away to sunshine, and thy clear eye speak 
Most of the skies when grief most touched thy 

cheek. 
Now, that far brightness faded ! never more 
Couldst thou lift heavenwards, for its hope thy 
heart. 
Since at Heaven's gate it seemed that thou and I 
must part. 

XLII. 

Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance 
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirred,) 
A flush — a fading of the cheek perchance, 
A word — less, less — the cadence of a word. 
Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath, 
Thence to bring haply kno\i'ledge fraught with 

death ! 
— Even thus, what never from thy lip was heard 
Broke on my soul. — I knew that in thy sight 
I stood — howe'er beloved — a recreant from the 

light ! 

XLIII. 

Thy sad sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — 
—Oh! the deep soul it breathed! — the love, the 

wo, 
The fervor, poured in that full gush of song. 
As it went floating through the flery glow 
Of the rich sunset ! — bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With all her vesper-voices, o'er the main, 
Which seemed responsive in its murmuring flow. 
— "Ave sanctissima!" — how ift that lay 
flath melted from my heart the martyr-strength 

away ! 

Ave, sanctissima! 
'Tis night-fall on the sea; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our souls rise to thee ! 

Watch us, wliile shadows lie 
O'er the dim water spread; 

Hear the heart's lonely sigh, 
— Thine, too, hath bled ! 
4* 



Thou that hast looked on death. 
Aid us when death is near ! 

Whisper of Heaven to faith ; 
Sweet mother, hear! 

Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave must rock our sleep, 

Ora, mater, ora! 
The star of the deep ! 

XLIV. 

" Ora pro nobis, mater!" — What a spell 
Was in those notes, with day's last glory dying 
On the flushed waters ! — seemed they not to 

swell 
From the far dust, wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword? — Oh! yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear! 
" OraT — with all the purple waves replying, 
All my youth's visions rising in the strain — 
— And I had thought it much to bear the rack and 
chain ! 

XLV. 

Torture ! — the sorrow of affection's eye. 
Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core, 
Deeper, and teaching more of agony. 
May pierce than many swords ! — and this I bore 
With a mute pang. Since 1 had vainly striven 
From its free springs to pour the truth of Heaven 
Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor ! 
Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share; 
— Alas! for those that love, and may not blend in 
prayer ! 

XLVI. 

We could not pray together 'midst the deep, 
Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay, 
Through days of splendour, nights too bright 

for sleep. 
Soft, solemn, h^jly! — We were on our way 
Unto the mighty Cordillera-land, 
With men whom tales of that world's golden 

strand 
Had lured to leave their vines. — Oh ! who shall 

say 
What thoughts rose in us, when the tropic sky 
Touched all its molten seas with sunset's alchemyl 

XLVII. 

^ Thoughts no more mingled ! — Then came 

night — th' intense 
Dark blue — the burning stars! — I saw ihec 

shine 
Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 

Southern Cross !(16) as when thy radiant sign 
First drew my gaze of youth. — No, not as then', 

1 had been stricken by the darts of men 
Since those fresh days, and now thy light di"imj 



MRS. HEMANS' SVORKS. 



Looked on mine anguish, while within me strove 
The still small voice against the might of suflering 
love. 

XLVIII. 

But thou, the clear, the glorious! thou Wert 

pouring 
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave, 
While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring, 
Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave! 
— Alas! I watched her dark religious glance, 
As it still sought thee througli the Heaven's ex- 
panse 
Bright Cross!— and knew not that I watched 

what gave 
But passing lustre — shrouded soon to be — 
A soft light found no 'more — no more on earth or 
sea! 

XLIX. 

I knew not all — yet something of unrest 
Sat on my heart. Wake, ocean-wind! I said; 
Waft us to land, in leafy freshness drest, 
Where through rich clouds of foliage o'er her 

head, 
Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by, 
Like singing voices, and the green earth lie 
Starry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread! 
— But the calm bound us 'midst the glassy main ; 
Ne'er was her step to bend earth's living flowers 
again. 

L. 

Yes ! as if Heaven upon the waves were sleep- 
ing, 
Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay. 
All moveless through their blue transparence 

keepmg, 
The shadows of our sails, from day to day ; 
While she — oh 1 strongest is the strong heart's 

wo — 
And yet 1 live I I feel the sunshine's glow — 
And I am he that looked, and saw decay 
Steal o'er the fair of earth, th' adored too much! 
—It is a fearful thing to love what death may 
touch. 

LI. 

A fearful thing tliat love and death may dwell 
In the same world! — She faded on — and I — 
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell 
Mv trusting soul that she could fade to die ! 
\ ct, ere sUe parted, I had marked a change, 
—But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, though 

strange : 
Something of gladness in the melody 
Of ner low voice, and in her words a flight 
CJf airy thought — alas ! too perilous'y bright ! 



LII. 

And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild, 
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze 
Of some all Vviondering and awakening child, 
That first the glories of the earth surveys. 
— Hovi could it thus deceive mel — she had wort 
Around her, like the dewy mists of morn, 
A pensive tenderness through happiest days. 
And a soft world of dreams had seemed to he 
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye. 

LIII. 

And I could hope in that strange fire ! — she died 
She died, with all its lustre on her mien ! 
— The day was melting from the waters wide, 
And through its long bright hours her thoughts 

had been. 
It seemed, with restless and unwonted yearning. 
To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turnings 
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene, 
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's 

breath — 
— Oh! with what vivid hues life comes back oft 

on death ! 

LIY 

And from her lips the mountain-songs of old, 
In wild faint snatches, fitfully had sprung; 
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
The '•'■Rio vcrde,'\\l) on her soul that hung, 
And thence flowed forth. — But now the sun was 

low, 
And watching by my side its last red glow, 
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung 
Her own soft " Ora, mater T — and tlie sound 
Was even like love's farewell — so mournfully pro- 
found. 

LV. 

The boy had dropped to slumber at our feet; — 
— "And I have lulled him to his smiling rest 
" Once more !" she said: — I raised him — it was 

sweet. 
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which blessed 
His look that hour ; — for now her voice grew 

weak ; 
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek. 
With her white hps a long, long kiss sha 

pressed. 
Yet hcfht, to wake him not. — Then sank hei 

head 
Against my bursting heart — What did I clasp?- 

the dead ! 

LVI. 

I called — to call what answers not our cries — 
By that we loved to stand unseen, unheard. 
With the loud passion of our tears and sigiis 
To see but some cold glistermg ringlet stirred. 



Art! in the quenched eye's fixedness to gaze, 
All vainly searching for tiie parted rays ; 
This is what waits us! — Dead! — with that chill 

word 
To link our bosom-names ! — For this we pour 
O ur souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! 

LVII. 
But the true parting came ! — I looked my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face ; 
How could I think the lovely spirit passed, 
Which there had left so tenderly its traced 
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow — 
No ! not like sleep to look upon art Thou, 
Death, death! — she lay, a thing for earth's em- 
brace. 
To cover with spring-wreaths. — For earth's? — 
the wave 
That gives the bier no flowers — makes moan 
above her grave ! 

LVIII. 

On the mid-seas a knell! — for man was there, 
Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead ! 
A long low-rolling knell — a voice of prayer — 
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread, 
And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high, 
Its faint stars fading from a solemia sky, 
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew 

red; — 
Were these things round mel — Such o'er me- 
mory sweep 
Wildly when aught brings back that burial of the 
deep. 

LIX. 

Then the broad lonely sunrise ! — and the plash 
Into the sounding waves !( 18) around her head 
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash, 
Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed 
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor ! 
Once fairest of young brides ! — and i ever more, 
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed 
Above thy rest ! — No mark the jiroud seas keep. 
To show where he that wept may pause again to 
weep. 

LX. 

So the depths took thee! — Oh! the sullen sense 
Of desolation in that hour compressed! 
Dust going down, a speck amidst th' immense 
And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast 
The trace a weed might leave there ! — Dust ! — 

the thing 
Which to the heart was as a living spring 
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possessed, 
Thus sinking! — Love, joy, fear, all crushed to 

this — 
And the wide Heaven so far — so fathomless th' 

abvss 



LXI. 

Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks 

lie low. 
What shall wake thence the dead1 — Blest, 

blest are they 
That earth to earth entrust; for they may know 
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's 

clay 
Shall rise at last, and bid the young flowers 

bloom, 
That waft a breath of hope around the tomb, 
And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray! 
But thou, what cave hath dimly chambered 

thee? 
Vain dreams! — oh! art thou not where there is 

no more sea 1(19) 

LXII. 

The wind rose free and singing: — when for 

ever, 
O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain, 
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour 
Down, where its treasure was, its glance tc 

strain ; 
Then rose the reckless wind! — Before our prow 
The white foam flashed — ay, joyously — and thou 
Wert left with all the solitary main 
Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart, 
And thy meek sorrowing love — oh! where could 

that depart 1 

LXIII. 

I will not speak of wo ; I may not tell — 
Friend tells not such to friend — the thoughts 

which rent 
My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell 
Across the billows to thy grave was sent. 
Thou, there most lonely! — He that sits above, 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, even if blent 
With a vain worship; for its close is dim 
Ever with grief, which leads the wrung soul bacJj 

to Him! 

LXIV. 

And with a milder pang if now I bear 

To think of thee in thy forsaken rest, 

If from my heart be lifted the despair. 

The sharp remorse with healing influenctj 

pressed. 
If the soft eyes that visit me in sieep 
Look not reproach, though still they seem tC' 

weep ; 
It is that He my sacrifice hath blessed, 
And filled my bosom through its inmost cell, 
With a deep chastening sense that all at last ib 

well, 



20 



MRS, HEMANS' WORKS. 



LXV. 

Yes! thou art now — Oh! wiierefore doth the 

thought 
Of the wave dashing o'er thy long bright hair, 
The sea-weed into its dark tresses wrought, 
The sand thy pillow — thou that wert so fair; 
Come o'er me stilll — Earth, earth! — it is the 

hold 
Earth ever keeps on that of earthy mould ! 
But thou art breathing now in purer air, 
I well believe, and freed from all of error. 
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life 

with terror. ^ 

LXVI. 

And if the love which here was passing light 
Went with what died not — Oh! that this we 

knew, 
But this! — that through the silence of the night, 
Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true. 
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose, 
We are yet aught of what we were to those 
We call the dead ! — their passionate adieu, 
Was it but breath, to perish 1 — Holier trust 
Be mine ! — thy love is there, but purified from dust ! 

LXVII. 

A thing all heavenly ! — cleared from that which 

hung 
As a dim cloud between us. heart and mind ! 
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils 

flung 
A chain, so darkly with its growth entwined. 
This is my hope! — though when the su set 

fades, 
When forests rock the midnight on their shades. 
When tones of wail are in the rising wind. 
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh ; 
F^or the strong hours will sway this frail mortality ! 

LXVIII. 

We have been wanderers since those days of| 

wo, 
Thy boy and I ! — As wild birds tend their 

young, 
So have I tended him — my bounding roe ! 
The high Peruvian solitudes among ; 
And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form, 
Where our frail bridge hath quivered 'midst the 

«torm.(20) 
-But there the war-notes of my country rung, 
And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fled 
'J'o hide in shades unpierced a marked and weary 

head. 

LXIX. 

Hut he weat on in gladness — that fair child! 
Save whcii at times his bright eye seemed to 
dream, 



And his young lips, which then no longer smiled, 
Asked of his mother! — that was but a gleam 
Of Memory, fleeting fast ; and then his play 
Through the wide Llanos(21) cheered again oui 

way, 
And by the mighty Oronoco stream, 
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn, 
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise music 
borne.(22) 

LXX. 

So like a spirit's voice ! a harping tone, 
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear. 
Such as might reach us from a world unknown, 
Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and 

fear! 
'Twas sweet! — yet those deep southern shades 

oppressed 
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest 
On melancholy waves :(23) I sighed to hear 
Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage 

fanned. 
And turned to seek the wilds of the red hunter's 

land. 

LXXI. 

And we have won a bower of refuge now. 
In this fresh waste, the breath of Vi'hose repose 
tiath cooled, like dew, the fever of my brow, 
And whose green oaks and cedars round me 

close, 
As temple-walls and pillars, that exclude 
Earth's haunted dreams from their free solitude; 
All, save the image and the thought of those 
Before us gone ; our loved of early years. 
Gone where afl'ection's cup hath lost the taste o^ 
tears. 

LXX II. 

I see a star — eve's first-born ! — in whose traia 
Past scenes, words, looks, comeback. The ar- 
rowy spire 
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane, 
Rests dark and still amidst a herven of fire; 
The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake 
Gleams like one ruby, and the soit winds wake, 
Till every string of nature's solemn lyre 
Is touched to answer: its most secret tone 
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all 
its own. 

LXXIIl. 

And hark ! another murmur on the air, 
Not of the hidden rills, or quivering shades' 
— That is the cataract's, which the breezes hv.nt 
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades 
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the Dec! 
Of the blue mournful seas, that keep the dead 
But they are far ! — the low sun here pervades 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY 



2h 



Dim forest-arches, bathing with red gold 
I'heir stems, till each is made a marvel to behold, 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous, yet full of gloom ! — In such an hour, 
The vesper-melody of dying bells 
Wanders through Spain, from each gray con- 
vent's tower 
fO'er shining rivers poured, and olive-dells. 
By every peasant heard, and muleteer. 
And hamlet, round my home : — and I am here. 
Living again through all my life's farewells. 
In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was 
spoken. 
And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart — yet un- 
broken ! 

LXXV. 

In such an hour are told the hermit's beads ; 
With the white sail the seaman's hymns floats 

by: 
Peace be with all ! whate'er their varying creeds, 
With all that send up holy thoughts on high! 
Come to me, boy ! — by Guadalquivir's vines, 
By every stream of Spain, as day declines, 
Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky. 
— We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my 

child ! 
3f Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the 

wild. 

LXXVI. 

At eve? — oh! — through all hours! — From dark 

dreams oft 
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might 
Of sihtude, while thou art breathing soft. 
And low, my loved one I on the breast of night : 
I look forth on the stars — the shadowy sleep 
Of forests — and the lake, whose gloomy deep 
Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies' light. 
A lonely world! — even fearful to man's thought, 
8jit for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath 
sought. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 1, col. 2. 
And sighing through the feathery canes, &a 
The canes m some parts of the American forests 
lorm a thick undergrowth for many hundred miles. 
See Hodgson's Letters from North America, 
vol. i. p. 242. 

Note 2, page 1, col. 2. 

And for theur birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell. 

Such a shell as Wordsworth has beautifully de- 
scribed- 



I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped sliell; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intently, and his countenance soon 
Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from witU^ 
Were lieard— sonorous cadences ! whereby, 
To his belief, the monitor expressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
— Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith.— The Excursion. 

Note 2, page 2, col. 2. 
I see an oak before me, &c. 
"I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical tem- 
perament expressing the kind of horror which h.a 
felt on beholding on the banks of the Missouri, an 
oak of prodigious size, which had been in a man- 
ner overpowered by an enormous wild grape-vine. 
The vine had clasped its huge folds round the 
trunk, and from thence had wound about eveiy 
branch and twig, until the mighty tree had with- 
ered in its embrace. It seemed like Laocoon strug- 
gling ineffectually in the hideous coils of the mon- 
ster Python."— ^raceSric^^e Hall. Chapter on 
F'orest Trees. 

Note 4, page 4, col. 1. 

Thou hast perished 
More nobly far my Alvar !— mailing known 
The might of truth. 

For a most interesting account of the Spanish 
Protestants, and the heroic devotion with which 
they met the spirit of persecution in the sixteenth 
century, see the Quarterly Review, No. 57, art. 
Quin's Visit to Spain. 

Note 5, page 5, col. 1. 

I look'd on two, 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place, 
For the same guilt — his sisters ! — 

" A priest, named Gonzalez, had among other 
proselytes, gained over two young females, his sis- 
ters, to the protestant faith. All three were con- 
fined in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Tho 
torture, repeatedly applied, could not draw from 
them the least evidence against their religious as- 
sociates. Every artifice was employed to obtain a 
recantation from the two sisters, since the constan- 
cy and learning of Gonzalez precluded all hopes 
of a theological victory. Their answer, if not ex- 
actly logical, is wonderfully simple and affecting. 
' We will die in the faith of our brother : he is too 
wise to be wrong, and too good to deceive us.'— 
The three stakes on which they died wero neai 
each other. The priest had been gagged till the 
moment of lighting up the wood. The few mi- 
nutes that he was allowed to spetik, he employed 
in comforting his sisters, with whom he sung (he 
109th Psalm, till the flames smothered tben 
voices." — Ibid, 



Note 6, page 5, col. 1. 

And deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame. 

The names, not only of the immediate victims 
of the Inquisition, were devoted to infamy, but 
those of all their relations were branded with the 
same indelible stain, which was likewise to descend 
as an inheritance to their latest posterity. 
Note 7, page 7, col. 1 . 
'Twas not within the city — but in sight 
Of the snow-crowned sierras. 
The piles erected for these executions were with- 
out the towns, and the final scene of an Auto da 
Fe was sometimes, from the length of the preceding 
ceremonies, delayed till midnight. 

Note 8, page 10, col. 1. 
I would liave called, adjuring the dark cloud; 
To the most ancient Heavens I. would have said 
" — Speak to me ! show me truth !" 
For one of the most powerful and impressive 
pictures perhaps ever drawn, of a young mind 
•struggling against habit and superstition in its first 
aspirations after truth, see the admirable Letters 
from Spain by Don Leucadio Doblado. 
Note 9, page 10, col. 2. 
For thick ye girt me round, ye long-departed .' 
Dust — imaged form— with cross, and shield, and crest. 

" You walk from end to end over a floor of tomb- 
stones, inlaid in brass v?ith the forms of the depart- 
ed, mitres, and croziers, and spears, and shields, 
and helmets, all mingled together — all worn into 
glass-like smoothness by the feet and the knees of 
long-departed worshippers. Around, on every side 
each in their separate chapel, sleep undisturbed 
from age to age the venerable ashes of the holiest 
or the loftiest that of old came thither to worship 
— their images and their dying prayers sculptured 
among the resting-places of their remains." — From 
a beautiful description of ancient Spanish Cathe- 
drals, in Petards Letters to his Kinsfolk. 
Note 10, page 11, col. 2. 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter hath beguiled 
A thousand pangs. 
" E 'lZa?ftpeg'g'iardel'angelico riso. — Petrarch. 
Note 11, page 12, col. 1. 
Mighty shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head, 
With the light melting through their high arcades, 
As thiough a pillared cloister's. 

" Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep 
iiades of moss-grown foreists, whose gloom and 
interlaced boughs first suggested that Gothic ar- 
cnitecture, beneath whose pointed arches, where 
they nad studied and prayed, the parti-coloured 
windows shed a tinged light ; scenes, which the 
trlcams of sunshine, penetrating the deep foliage, 
and flickering on the variegated turf below, might 
aave recalled to their memory." — Webster'' s Ora^l 
(^nn on the Landing of the Pilgriin Fathers in \ 



New England. — See Hodgson's Letters from 
North America, vol. ii. p. 305. 

Note 12, page 12, col. 1. 

Bring me the sounding of the tori'ent-water, 
With yet a nearer swell — fresh breeze, awake! 

The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus allu- 
ded to in an interesting work of Mrs, Grant's. 
" On the opposite side the view was bounded by 
steep hills, covered with lofty pines, from which a 
waterfall descended, which not only gave anima- 
tion to the sylvan scene, but was the best barome- 
ter imaginable ; foretelling by its varied and intel- 
ligible sounds every approaching change, not only 
of the weather but of the wind." — Memoirs of an 
American Lady, vol. i. p. 143. 

Note 13, page 13, col. 1. 
And the full circle of the rainbow seen 
There, on the snows. 
The circular rainbows, occasionally seen amongst 
the Andes, are described by Ulloa. 

Note 14, page 13, col. 1. 
But so my spirit's fevered longings wrought. 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint sad sound, 
That from the darkness of the walls they brougltt 
A loved scene round me, visibly around 

Many striking instances of the vividness with 
which the mind, when strongly excited, has been 
known to renovate past impressions, and embody 
them into visible imagery, are noticed and account- 
ed for in Dr. Hibbert's Philosophy of Apparitions. 
The following illustrative passage is quoted in the 
same work, from the writings of the late Dr. Fer- 
riar. " I remember that, about the age of four- 
teen, it was a source of great amusement to my- 
self, if I had been viewing any interesting object 
in the course of the day, such as a romantic ruin, 
a fine seat, or a review of a body of troops, as soon 
as evening came on, if I had occasion to go into a 
dark room, tlie whole scene was brought before my 
eyes with a brilliancy equal to what it had possess- 
ed in daylight, and remained visible for several mi- 
nutes. I have no doubt that dismal and frightful 
images have been thus presented to young persons 
after scenes of domestic afHiction or public horror." 

The following passage from the " Alcazar of 
Seville," a tale, or historical sketch, by the author 
of Doblado's letters, affords a further illustration 
of this subject. " When, descending fast into the 
vale of years, I strongly fix my mind's eye on those 
narrow, shady, silent streets, where I breathed ihe 
scented air which came rustling through the sur- 
rounding groves; where the footsteps re-echoed 
from the clean watered porches of the houses, anu 
where every object spoke of quiet and contentment; 

• . the objects around me begii 

to fade into a mere delusion, and not only the 
thoughts, but the external sensations, which 1 
then experience, revive with a reality that ulmost 




makes me shudder — it has so much the character 
of a trance, or vision." 

Note 15, page 15, col. 1. 

Nor the faint flower-scents, as they come and go 

In the soft air, like music wandering by. 
" For because the breath of flowers is farre sweet- 
er m the aire (where it comes and goes hke the 
warbhng of music) than in the hand, thei-efore no- 
thing is more lit for that dehght than to know 
what be the flowers and plants wliich doe best per- 
fume the aire." — Lord Bacon's Essay on Gardens. 

Note 16, page 17, col. 2. 
I saw thee shine 

Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 

O Soutliern Cross ! 
" The pleasure we felt on discovering the South- 
ern Cross was warmly shared by such of the crew 
as had lived in the colonies. In the solitude of the 
seas, we hail a star as a friend from whom we have 
long been separated. Among the Portuguese and 
the Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to increase 
this feeling ; a religious sentiment attaches them 
to a constellation, the form of which recals the sign 
of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts 

of the New World It has been 

observed at what hour of the night, in different 
seasons, the Cross of the South is erect or inclined. 
It is a time-piece that advances very regularly near 
four minutes a day, and no other group of stars 
exhibits to the naked eye an observation of time so 
easily made. How often have we heard our guides 
exclaim in the savannahs of Venezuela, or in the 
desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, " Mid- 
night is past, the cross begins to bend !" How often 
these words reminded us of that affecting scene 
where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source 
of the river Lataniers, conversed together for the 
last time, and where the old man, at the sight of 
the Southern Cross, warns them that it is time to 
separate!" — De Humboldt's Travels. 

Note 17, page 18, col. 1 . 
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
Tlie " Rio Verde." 

" Rio verde, rio verde," the popular Spanish Ro- 
mance, known to the English reader in Percy's 
translation. 

"Gentle river, gentle river, 

Lo, thv streams are stained with gore ! 

Many a brave and noble captain 

Floats along thy willowed shore," <fec. <fec 

Note 18, page 19, col. 1. 
Then the broad lonely sunrise !— and the plash 
,^ Into the sounding waves ! — 

De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a young 



Asturian at sea, mentions the entreaty of the offi- 
ciating priest, that the body, which had been 
brought upon deck during the night, might not be 
committed to the waves until after sunrise, in order 
to pay it the last rites according to the usage of tlie 
Romish church. 

Note 19, page 19, col. 2. 
Oh, art thou not where there is no more sea? 
" And there was no more sea." — Rev. chap. xxi. v. 1. 

Note 20, page 20, col. 1. 
And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form, 
Where our frail bridge hath quivered 'midst tlie storm. 
The bridges over many deep chasms amongst 
the Andes are pendulous, and formed only of the 
fibres of equinoctial plants. Their tremulous mo- 
tion has afforded a striking image to one of the 
stanzas in "Gertrude of Wyoming." 
"Anon some wilder portraiture he draws, 
Of nature's savage glories he would speak ; 
The loneliness of earth, that overawes, 
Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique, 
The lama-driver, on Peruvia's peak. 
Nor voice nor living motion marks around. 
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek. 
Or wild-cane rich, high flung o'er gulf profound, 
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound. 

Note 21, page 20, col. 2. 
And then his play 
Through the wide Llanos cheered again our way. 
Llanos^ or savannas, the great plains in South 
America. 

Note 22, page 20, col. 1. 

And by the mighty Oronoco stream. 

On whose lone margin we have heard at morn 

From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise-music borne. 

De Humboldt speaks of these rock« on the shores 
of the Oronoco. Travellers have heard from time 
to time subterraneous sounds proceed from thein at 
run-rise, resembling those of an organ. He be- 
lieves in the existence of this mysterious music, 
although not fortunate enough to have heard i'. 
himself, and thinks that it may be produced by 
currents of air issuing through the crevices. 

Note 23, page 20, col. 2. 

Yet those deep southern shades oppressed 
My soul with stillness. 

The same distinguished traveller frequently al ■ 
ludes to the extreme stillness of the air in the equa 
torial regions of the new continent, and particularly 
on the thickly wooded shores of the Oronoco. " iii 
this neighbourhood," he says, "no breath of wind 
ever agitates the foliage." 



24 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



§f » 



The following pieces may so far be considered 
a series, as each is intended to be commemora- 
tive of some national recollection, popular cus- 
tom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by 
Herder's " Stimmen der Volker in Liedern;" 
the execution is however different, as the poems 
in his collection are chiefly translations. 

Most of those forming the present one have ap- 
peared, as well as the miscellaneous pieces at- 
tached to them, in the New Monthly Magazine. 



MOORISH BRIDAL SONG. 



It is a custom among the fdoors, that a female who dies un- 
married is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, and the 
bridal song is sung over her remains before they are borne 
xora her home. 

Sec the Narrative of a Ten Tear's Residence in 
Tripoli, by the sister-in-law of Mr. TuUy. 



The citron groves their fruit and flowers were 
strewing 

Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh 

Of l(<vv sweet summer-winds, the branches woo- 
ing. 

With music through their shadowy bowers went 
by; 

Music and voices, from the marble halls, 
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain- 
falls. 

A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling, 
To blend with fragrance in those southern 

shades. 
And told offcasts within the stately dwelling. 
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem- 
crowned maids; 
And thus it flowed ; — yet something in the lay 
Belonged to sadness, as it died away. 

" The bride comes forth ! her tears no more are 

falling 
To leave the chamber of her infant years; 
Kind voices from a distant home are calling ; 
She comes like day-spring — she hath done with 

tears ; 
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, 
{ ler soft smile gladden other hearts than ours ! 

— Pour the rich odours round! 

" We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing; 
liove still goes with her from her place of birth ; 



Deep silent joy within her soul is springing, 
Though in her glance the light no more la 

mirth ! 
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years ; 
Her sisters weep — but she hath done with tears ! 
— Now may the timbrel sound !" 

Knowest thou for whom they sang the bridal 

numbers'? 
— One, whose rich tresses were to wave no 

more I 
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle 

slumbers. 
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore ! 
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread. — 
— V/eep for the young, the beautiful, — the dead ! 



THE BIRD'S RELEASE. 



The Indians of Bengal and of the Coast of Malabar bring 
cages filled with birds to the graves of their friends, ovei 
which they set tlie birds at liberty. This custom is alluded V^ 
in the description of Virginia's funeral. 

See Paul and Virginia, 



Go forth, for she is gone ! 
With the golden light of her wavy hair, 
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air ; 

She hath left her dwelling lone! 

Her voice hath passed away ! 
It hath passed away like a summer breeze, 
When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas, 

Where we may not trace its way. 

Go forth, and like her be free ! 
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye, 
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky, 

And what is our grief to theel 

Is it aught even to hear we mourn 1 
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shedl 
Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentJu 
head. 

Or float on the light wind borne 'i 

We know not — but she is gone ! 
Her step from the dance, her voice from the 

song, 
And the smile of her eyefrom the festal throng; — 

She hath left her dwelling lone! 



Wlien the waves at sunset shine, 
We may hear thy voice, amidst thousands more, 
In the scented woods of our glowing shore, 

But we shall not know 'tis tiiine! 

Even so with the loved one flown ! 
Her smile in the starlight may wander by. 
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh. 

Around us — but all unknown. 

Go forth, we have loosed thy chain! 
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers. 
Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers. 

But thou wilt not be lured again. 

Even thus may the summer pour 
All fragrant things on the land's green breast. 
And the glorious earth like a bride be dressed, 

But it wins her back no more! 



THE SWORD OF THE TOMB. 



A NORTHERN LEGEND. 



riie idea of thia ballad is taken from a scene in " Stark- 
:)ther," d tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. The 
sepulchral (ire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the 
ashes of deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the 
Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the departed spirit 
were supposed by the Scandinavian mythologists to be the 
consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre. 

See Ochlenscldager^s Plays. 



" Voice of the gifted elder time! 
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme! 
Speak ! from the shades and the depths disclose, 
How Sigard may vanish his mortal foes; 
Voice of the buried past ! 

" Voice of the grave 1 'tis the mighty hour. 
When night with her stars and dreams hath power, 
And my step hath been soundless on the snows, 
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose 
On the billow and the blast." 

Then the torrents of the North, 
And the forest pines were still. 
While a hollow chant came forth 
From the dark sepulchral hill. 

" There shi-nes no sun 'midst the hidden dead. 
But where the day looks not the brave may tread ; 
There is heard no song, and no mead is poured, 
But the warrior may come to the silent board 
In the shadow of the night. 

" There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb, 
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom; 
But soft be thy step through the silence deep. 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep, 
For the viewless have fearful might !'' 
D 5 



Then died (he solemn lay, 
As a trumpet's music dies. 
By the night-wind borne away 
Through the wild and stormy skies. 

The fir-trees rocked to the wailing blast, 
As on through the forest the warrior passed,— 
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old. 
The dark place of visions and legends, told 
By the fires of Northern pine. 

The fir-trees rocked, and the frozen ground 

Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound; 

And it seemed that the depths of those awfuS 

shades. 
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades, 

Gave warning, with voice and sign. 

But the wind strange magic knows 
To call wild shape and tone 
From the gray wood's tossing boughs 
When night is on her throne. 

The pines closed o'er him with a deeper gloom, 
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb; 
The pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright 
With the arrowy streams of the northern light, 
But his road through dimness lay! 

He passed, in the heart of that ancient wood, 
The dark shrine stained with the victim's blood: 
Nor paused, till the rock where a vaulted bed 
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead, 
Arose on his midnight way. 

Then first a moment's chill 
Went shuddering through his breast, 
And the steel-clad man stood still 
Before that place of rest. 

But he crossed at length with a deep-drawn breath, 
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death, 
And looked on the pale mysterious fire 
Which gleamed from the urn of his warrior-siis, 
With a strange and solemn light. 

Then darkly the words of the boding strain 
Like an omen rose on his soul again, 
— " Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep. 
For the viewless have fearful might!" 

But the gleaming sword and shielcJ 
Of many a battle-day 
Hung o'er that urn, revealed 
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray 

With a faded wreath cf oak-leaves bound. 
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renowned, 
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice 
Had called to the banquet where gods rejoif-e, 
And the rich mead flows in licht. 



26 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



With a beating heart his son drew near, 
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear, 
— " Soft be thy step through the silence fleep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep. 
For the viewless have fearful might !" 

And many a Saga's rhyme, 
And legend of the grave, 
That shadowy scene and time 
Called back, to daunt the brave. 

But he raised his arm, and the flame grew dim. 
And the sword in its hght seemed to wave and 

swim, 
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well — 
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell 

Through the chamber of the dead 1 

The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound. 
And the urn lay shivered in fragments round ; 
And a rush, as of tempests, quenched the fire, 
And the scattered dust of his warlike sire 
Was strewn on the Champion's head. 

One moment — and all was still 
In the slumberer's ancient hall, 
When the rock had ceased to thrill 
With the mighty weapon's fall. 

The stars were just fading, one by one, 
'I'he clouds were just tinged by the early sun. 
When there streamed through the cavern a torch's 

flame. 
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came 

To seek him in the tomb. 

Stretched on his shield, like the steel-girt slain 
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain. 
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there, 
B'lt he wildly woke when the torch's glare 
Burst on him through the gloom. 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the hour of chase is near : 
Come forth, come forth, with me ! 
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?' 

" I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, 
I have scattered the dust of my warrior-sire ! 
It hums on my head, and it weighs down my heart; 
But the winds shall not wander without their part 
To strew o'er the restless deep ! 

" In the mantle of death he was here with me now, — 
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on 

his brow. 
Ana nis cold still glance on my spirit fell 
Willi an icy ray and a withering spell — 

Oh! fhill is the house of sleep 1" 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the reddemng sun sliines clear; 



Come forth, come forth, with me ! 
It is dark and fearful here !" 

" He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown. 
But gone from his head is the kingly crown. 
The crown from his head, and the spear from hl» 

hand, — 
They have chased him far from the glorious land 
Where the feast of the gods is spread! 

" He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, 
He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed ! 
His place is no longer at Odin's board. 
He is driven from Volhalla without his sword ! 
But the slayer shall avenge the dead !" 

That sword its fame had won 
By the fall of many a crest. 
But its fiercest work was done 
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast! 



VALKYRIUR SONG. 



The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, 
were supposed to sinsle out the warriors who were lo die in 
battle, and be received into the halls of Odin. 

Whena Northern chief I'ell gloriously in war, his nliscquira 
were honoured with all possible magnifi'^.ence. Ilis ariiv!, gold 
and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever elaa 
he held most dear, were placed with him on the jiile. His de- 
pendants and friends frequently made it a point of honour to 
die with their leader, in order to attend on his shade in Val- 
halla, or the 1 alace of Odin. And lastly, his wife was gene- 
rally consumed witii him on the same pile. 
See Mallet's Nortliern Antiquities, Uerberl's Hegla, dj-e. 

Tremblingly flashed th' inconstant meteor light, 
Showing thin fornis like virgins of this earth, 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 
The flusli of passion, smile or tear, had seemed 
On the fixed brightness of each dazzling clieek 
Strange and unnatural. 

Milman. 



The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep 

Of a vision-haunted night, 
And he looked from his bark o'er the gloomj deeo, 
And counted the streaks of light; 
For the red sun's earliest ray 
Was to rouse his bands that day, 
To the stormy joy of fight ! 

But the dreams of rest were stUl on earth, 

And the silent stars on high. 
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin- 
hearth 
'Midst the quiet of the sky; 
And along the twilight bay 
In their sleep the hamlets lay, 
For they knew not the norse were nigh! 



Ji 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



2-: 



The Sea-king looked o'er the brooding wave: 

He turned to the dusky shore, 
And there seemed, through the arch of a tide- 
worn cave, 
A gleam, as of snow, to pour ; 
And forth, in watery light, 
Moved phantoms, dimly white, 
Which the garb of woman bore. 

Slowly they moved to the billow side ; 

And the forms, as they grew more clear, 
Seemed each on a tall pale steed to ride 
And a shadowy crest to rear. 
And to beckon with faint hand 
From the dark and rocky strand. 
And to point a gleaming spear. 

Then a stillness on his spirit fell, 

Before th' unearthly train. 
For he knew Valhalla's daughters well, 
The choosers of the slain! 
And a sudden rising breeze 
Bore across the moaning seas 
To his ear their thrilling strain; 

" There are songs in Odin's Hall, 
For the brave, e'er night to fall! 
Doth the great sun hide his ray 1 — 
He must bring a wrathful day! 
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath ? — 
Swords must do the work of death! 
Regner! — sea-king! — thcc we call! — 
There is joy in Odin's tiall. 

" At the feast and in the song, 
Thou shall be remembered long ! 
By the green isles of the flood 
Thou hast left thy track in blood ! 
On the earth and on the sea. 
There are those will speak of thee! 
'Tis enough — the war-gods call — 
There is mead in Odin's Hall! 

"Regner! tell thy fair-haired bride 
She must slumber at thy side ! 
Tell the brother of thy breast 
Even for hun thy grave hath rest! 
Tell the raven-steed which hore thee, 
When the wild wolf fled before thee, 
He too with his lord must fall — 
There is room in Odin's Hall! 

"Lo! the mighty sun looks forth — 
Arm I thou leader of the north! 
Lo! the miats of twilight fly — 
We must vanish, thou must die ! 
By the sword and by the spear, 
By the hand that knows not fear 
Sea-king! nobly shall thou fall!— 
There is joy in Odin's Hall!" 



There was arming heard on land and wave, 

When afar the sunlight spread, 

And the phantom forms of the tide- worn cave 

With the mists of morning (led. 

But at eve, the kingly hand 

Of the battle-axe and brand, 

Lay cold on a pile of dead ! 



THE CAVERN OF THE THREE 
TELLS. 

SWISS TRADITION. 



The three founders ofthe Helvetic Confederacy are thought 
to sleep in a cavern near the lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen 
call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their 
antique garb, in quiet slumber; ani when Switzerland is m 
her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of 
the land. See QuaTttrly Revieio, No. 44. 

The Griitli, where the confederates held their nightly 
meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, 
or Lake of the Forest-cantons, here called the Forest-sea. 



Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave, 
Seek not the bright stars there. 
Though the whispering pines that o'er H wave. 
With freshness All the air : 

For there the Patriot Threfe^ 
In the garb of old arrayed. 
By their native Forest-sea 
On a rocky couch are laid 

The Patriot Three that met of yore 

Beneath the midnight sky, 
And leagued their hearts on the Griitli shore. 
In the name of liberty! 

Now silently they sleep 

Amidst the hills they freed ; 
But their rest is only deep, 

Tiil their country's hour of need. 

They start not at the hunter's call, 

Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry. 
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall, 
Nor the Lauwine thundering by! 

And the Al[)ine herdsman's lay. 
To a Switzer's heart so dear! 
On the wild wind floats away. 
No more for them to hear. 

But when the battle-horn is blown 

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send hack the tone 
Through their eagle's lonely sky; 

When spear-heads light the lakes. 
When trumpets loose the snows, 
When the rushing war-steed shake« 
The glacier's mute repo.^e- 



28 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



When Uri's beechen woods wave red 

In the burning hamlet's light : 
Then from the cavern of the dead, 
Shall the sleepers wake in might! 

With a leap, like Tell's proud leap, 
When away the helm he flung,* 
And boldly up the steep 

From the flashing billow sprung ! 

They shall wake beside their Forest-sea, 

In the ancient garb they wore 
When they linked the hands that made us free, 
On the Griitli's moonHght shore: 

And their voices shall be heard, 

And be answered with a shout, 
Till the echoing Alps are stirred, 
And the signal-fires blaze out. 

And the land shall see such deeds again 

As those of that proud day. 
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain. 
Through the serried spears made way; 
And when the rocks came down 

On the dark Morganten dell, 
And the crowned casques,t o'erthrown, 
Before our fathers fell ! 

For the Kiihreihen'st notes must never sound 

In a land that wears the chain. 
And the vines on freedom's holy ground 
Untrampled must remain! 

And the yellow harvest wave 

For no stranger's hand to reap, 
While within their silent cave 
The men of Griitli sleep! 



SWISS SONG, 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF aN ANCIENT BATTLE. 



The Swiss, eren to our days have continued to celebrate the 
nnniversary of ancient battles with much solemnity; assem- 
bling in the open air on tlie fields where their ancestors fought, 
lo hear thanksgivings oflTered up by the priests, and the names 
of all who shared in tne glory of the day enumerated. They 
afterwards walk in procession to cha[)els, always erected in 
the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the 
Bouls of the departeu. 

See Planla's History of the Helvetic Confederacy. 



Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet they gird a land 
Where freedom's voice and step are found, 

Forget ye not the band. 



■ The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of 
Gesslor is marked by a chapel, and called the Telle7isprung. 

* 'Jrcicned helmets, as a distinction of rank, are men- 
aonert in Simond's Switzerland. 

{The Kiilireihen, ths celebrated Rans des Vaches. 



The faithful band, our sires, who fell 
Here, in the narrow battle-dell ! 

If yet, the wilds among. 

Our silent hearts may burn. 
When the deep mountain-horn had rung, 
And home our steps may turn, 
— Home 1 — home ! — if still that name be dear 
Praise to the men who perished here ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

Up to the shining snows 
That day the stormy rolling sound, 
The sound of battle rose ! 
Their caves prolonged the trumpet's blast, 
Their dark pines trembled as it passed ! 

They saw the princely crest. 

They saw the knightly spear 
The banner and the mail-clad breast 
Borne down, and trampled here ! 
They saw — and glorying there they stand. 
Eternal records to the land ! 

Praise to the mountain-born, 
The brethren of the glen ! 
By them no steel-array was worn, 
They stood as peasant-men ! 
They left the vineyard and the field 
To break an empire's lance and shield ! 

Look on the white Alps round 

If yet, along their steeps. 
Our children's fearless feet may bound, 
Free as the chamois leaps: 
Teach them in song to bless the band 
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 

If, by the wood-fire's blaze. 

When winter-stars gleam cold. 
The glorious tales of elder days 
May proudly yet be told. 
Forget not then the shepherd-race, 
Who made the hearth a holy place ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet the sabbath bell 
Cotnes o'er them with a gladdening sound, 
Think on the battle-dell ! 
For blood first bathed its flowery sod. 
That chainless hearts might worship God! 

THE MESSENGER-BIRD. 



Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a cer 

tain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say 

it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relation* 

have sent, and that it brings them news from the other worI4 

See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs. 



Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird ! 
Thou art come from the spirits' land ! 







! W I I I I 



FCKIE ra]ESSER©lK ©0K®„ 



LAYS OP MANY LANDS. 



29 



Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard, 
And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 

In the light of that summer shore, 
And we know that the friends we have lost are there, 

They are there— and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst 
From the Fountain of Youth ere now,* 

For there must the stream in its freshness burst, 
Which none may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 
From the land of deathless flowers, 

By the feast, or the dance, or tlie song of mirth, 
Though their hearts were once with ours ; 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze. 

And bent with us the bow. 
And heard tne tales of our fathers' days. 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget 7 
We call — and they answer not again — 

— Do they love — do they love us yet 1 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 

And the father of his child 1 
And the chief, of those that were wont to share 

His wanderings through the wild 1 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still 1 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 



An early traveller mentions a people on the banks of the 
Mississippi v^ho burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The 
reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and 
relations to be only gone on a journey, and being in constant 
expectation of their return, loolc for them vainly amongst these 
foreign travellers. 

PicarVs Cerejnonies and Religious Customs. 

" J'ai pass6 moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his Souv& 
nirs d'Am6rique, "chez une jjeupladc indienne quise prenait 
a pleurer a la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des 
amis partis pour la Contree des Ames, et depuis long-terns 
671 voyage." 



We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We looked for the youth of the sunny glance, 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance ! 



* An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce do 
Leon, in the 16th century, with the view of discovering a v/on- 
derful fountain, be'lieved by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring 
in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restor- 
ing youth to aU who bathed in its waters. — See Robertson's 
HlstoTi 2f America. 



The light of his eye was a joy to see, 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee! 
But there came a voice from a distant snore : 
He was called — he is found 'midst liis tribe aa 

morel 
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! 
— His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough. 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine, 
For we heard a step — but the step was thine. 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We looked for the maid of the mournful song, 
Mournful, though sweet — she hath left us long 1 
We told her the youth of her love was gone, 
And she went forth to seek him — she passed alone; 
We hear not her voice when the woods are still, 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled. 
The winter is white on his lonely head, 
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track. 
He hath none when we rest — yet she comes not 

back ! 
We looked for her eye on the feast to shine. 
For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! 
We looked for the chief who hath left the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here 1 
We looked for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We looked for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild ami shrill tlirough the milnight sky! 
— Where are they 1 — thou'rt seeking some distant 

coast — 
Oh, ask of them, stranger ! — send back the lost ! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams. 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine. 
And to watch for a step — but the step was thine! 



THE ISLE OF FOUNTS. 

AN INDIAN TRADITION. 



" The River St. Mary has its source from a vast lake oi 
marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and 
occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This 
vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a 
lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high 
land ; one of which the present generation of the Creek In- 
dians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth ; tliey say ii 
is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are 
incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terres- 
trial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising 
hunters, when in pursuit of gar'' ; ^-t that in theii snaei- 
vours to approach it, they were involved in perpetuii 'aby- 
rimhs, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined tlioy 
hatj just gained it, itsecmed to fly before them, a m lately »•> 



peanng and disappearing. They resolved, at lengtli, to leave 
ilie delusive pursuit, and to return, wliirh, after a number of 
dirticulties, they effected. When ihey reported tlieir adven- 
tures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed 
i\'ith an irresistible draire to invade, and make a conquest of, 
so cliarming a country ; but all their attempts have hitherto 
proved aborlive, never having been able again to find that en- 
iJiantirg spot." 

Bariram's Travels through N. and S. Carolina, SfC. 
The additional circumstajic^s in the Isle of Founts are mere- 
ly imaginary. 



Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take 

O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way, 
To reach the still and shining lake 

Along whose banks the west-winds playl 
— Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile, 
Oh 1 seek thou not the Fountain-Isle ! 

Lull but the mighty serpent king,* 

'Midst the gray rocks, his old domain ; 
Ward but the cougar's deadly spring, 

— Thy step that lake's green shore may gain ; 
And the bright Isle, when all is passed 
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last 1 

Yes ! there, with all its rainbow streams, 

Clear as within thine arrow's flight. 
The Isle of Founts, the Isle of dreams. 
Floats on the wave in golden light ; 
And lovely will the shadows be 
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee ! 

And breathings from their sunny flowers. 

Which are not of the things that die. 
And singing voices from their bowers 
Shall greet thee in their purple sky; 
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell 
Far in the green reed's hollow cell. 

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise 

From the deep chambers of the earth'? 
The wild and wondrous melodies 

To which the ancient rocks gave birth'?! 
Like that sweet song of hidden caves 
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves. 

The emerald waves ! — they take their hue 

And image from that sunbright shore ; 
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe, 
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar. 
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed, 
The dreamy land should still recede ! 



* The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their moun- 
tains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with 
'.lid mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of the 
rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the " bright old inhabi- 
tants." The/ represent them as snakes of an enormous size, 
ind which possess the power of drawing to them every living 
crejjtiife that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their 
ueads are saio to oe crowned with a carbuncle, of dazzling 
tjrightness.— See notes to Lei/den's " Scenes of Infancy." 

1 The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the 
fk)uth American missionaries ioircsde Musica, and alluded 
to in a toimer note. 



Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear 

The music of its flowering shades, 
And ever should the sound be near 

Of founts that ripple through its glades ; 
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray 
Of joyous waters in their playl 

But wo for him who sees them burst 

With their bright spray-showers to the lake 
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst 
That semblance in his soul shall wake 
For ever pouring through his dreams. 
The gush of those untasted streams ! 

Bright, bright, in many a rocky urn, 

The waters of our deserts lie, 
Yet at the source his lip shall burn, 
Parched with the fever's agony! 
From the blue mountains to the main, 
Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 

E'en thus our hunters came of yore 

Back from their long and weary quest; 
— Had they not seen th' untrodden shore, 
And could they 'midst our wilds find rest? 
The lightning of their glance was fled, 
They dwelt amongst us as the dead ! 

They lay beside our glittering rills, 

With visions in their darkened eye, 
Their joy was not amidst the hills, 
Where elk and deer before us fly; 
Their spears upon the cedar hung. 
Their javelins to the wind were flung. 

They bent no more the forest-bow. 

They armed not with the warrior band. 
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow — 
— They left us for the spirit's land ! 
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap 
Show where the restless found their sleep. 

Son of the stranger ! if at eve 

Silence be 'midst us in thy place, 
Yet go not where the mighty leave 
The strength of battle and of chase! 
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile. 
Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain-Isle ! 



THE BENDED BOW. 



It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Bri- 
tain by sending messengers in different directions through the 
land, each bearing a bended bow ; and that peace was in like 
manner announced by abow unstrung, and therefore straight. 
See the Cambrian Antiquities. 



There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 
There was sent through Britain a bended bow. 



LAYS OP MANY LANDS. 



31 



And a voice was poured on the free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war. 

" Heard ye not the battle-horn 1 
— Reaper ! leave thy golden corn ! 
Leave it for the birds of heaven, 
Swords must flash, and spears be riven ! 
Leave it for the winds to shed — 
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!" 

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son, 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Hunter ! leave the mountain-chase I 
Take the falchion from its place ! 
Let the wolf go free to-day. 
Leave him for a nobler prey ! 
Let the deer ungalled sweep by, — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh !" 

And the hunter armed ere the chase was done, 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast ! 
Stay not till the song hath ceased : 
Though the mead be foaming bright. 
Though the fire gives ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth and leave the hall — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall !" 

And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown. 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Prince !' thy father's deeds are told. 
In the bower and in the hold 1 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung, 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 

-Foes are on thy native sea — 
Give our bards a tale of thee !" 

And the prince came armed, like a leader's son, 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Mother ! stay thou not thy boy ! 
He must learn the battle's joy. 
Sister ! bring the sword and spear, 
Give thy brother words of cheer ! 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part, 
Britain calls the strong in heart !" 

And the bended bow and the voice passed on, 
And the bards made song for a battle won. 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.* 



It IS recorded of Henry the Fivat, that after the death of his 
»on, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the 
»ast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile, 



The bark that held a prince went down, 
The sweeping waves rolled on ; 



* Originally nublished in the Literary Gazette. 



And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son 1 
He lived — for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain;' — 
Why comes not death to those who mourn v 

— He never smiled again J 

There stood proud forms around his throne, 

The stately and the brave. 
But which could fill the place of one. 

That one beneath the wave ? 
Before him passed the young and fair. 

In pleasure's reckless train, 
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair^ 

— He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round ; 

He heard the minstrel sing, 
He saw the tourney's victor crowned, 

Amidst the knightly ring ; 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep— 

— He never smiled again ! 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 

Of vows once fondly poured. 
And strangers took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears. 

Were left to Heaven's bright rain, 
Fresh hopes were born for other years — 

— He never smiled again ! 



CCEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS 
FATHER. 



The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey 
church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Caur- 
de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and 
remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebeHiooi 
conduct which had been the means of bringing his father t« 
an imtimely grave. 



Torches were blazing clear. 

Hymns pealing deep and slow, 
Where a king lay stately on his biei. 

In the church of Fontevraud. 
Banners of battle o'er him hung, 

And warriors slept beneath. 
And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung 

On the settled face of death. 

On the settled face of death 

A strong and ruddy glare, 
Though dimmed at times by the censer s Dtostn. 

Yet it fell still brightest there 
As if each deeply-furrowed trace 

Of earthlv vears to show. • 



83 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



-Alas ! that sceptered mortal's race 
Had surely closed in wo ! 

The marble floor was swept , 

By many a long dark stole, 
As the kneeling priests round him that slept, 

Sang mass for the parted soul ; 
And solemn were the strains they poured 

Through the stillness of the night, 
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 

And the silent king in sight. 

There was heard a heavy clang, 

As of steel-girt men the tread. 
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 

With a sounding trill of dread ; 
And the holy chaunt was hushed awhile, 

As, by the torch's flame, 
A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, 

With a mail-clad leader came. 

He came with haughty look, 

An eagle-glance and clear,' 
But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook. 

When he stood beside the bier ! 
He stood there still with a drooping brow, 

And clasped hands o'er it raised ; — 
For his father lay before him low. 

It was Cceur-de-Lion gazed! 

And silently he strove 

With the workings of his breast, 
But there 's more in late repentant love 

Than steel may keep suppressed! 
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain — 

Men held their breath in awe, 
For his face was seen by his warrior-train. 

And he recked not that they saw. 

He looked upon the dead, 

And sorrow seemed to lie, 
A weight of sorrow, even like lead, 

Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
Ele stooped — and kissed the frozen cheek. 

And the heavy hand of clay. 
Till bursting words — yet all too weak — 

Gave his soul's passion way. 

" Oh, father! is it vain. 

This late remorse and deep"? 
bpeak to me, father I once again, 

1 weep — behold, I weep! 
Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! 

Were but this work undone, 
I would give England's crown, my sire! 

To hear thee bless thy son. 

''Speak to me! mighty grief 
Ere now the dust hath stirred! 
Hear me, but hear me! — father, chief, 
My king ! I must \ie heard ! 



—Hushed, hushed — how is it that I cali, 

And that thou answerest not? 
When was it thusl — wo, wo for all 

The love my soul forgot 1 

" Thy silver hairs I see, 

So still, so sadly bright! 
And father, father ! but for me, 

They had not been so white! 
/bore thee down, high heart! at last. 

No longer couldst thou strive; — 
Oh! for one moment of the past. 

To kneel and say — ' Foi'give !' 

" Thou wert the noblest king. 

On royal throne e'er seen ; 
And thou didst wear, in knightly ring. 

Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
And thou, didst prove, where spears are proved 

In war, the bravest heart — 
— Oh ! ever the renowned and loved 

Thou wert — and there thou art! 

" Thou that my boyhood's guide 

Didst take fond joy to be ! — 
The times I've sported at thy side. 

And climbed thy parent-knee! 
And there before the blessed shrine, 

My sire ! I see thee lie, — 
How will that sad still face of thine 

Look on me till I die !" 



THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE 
FALLEN TREE. 



"Here (at Breveton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly 
strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, 
and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family diea, 
there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swim- 
ming on the water for several days." 

Camden's Brilannia. 



Yes ! I have seen the ancient oak 

On the dark deep water cast. 
And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke^ 
Or the rush of the sweeping blast; 
For the axe might never touch that tree. 
And the air was still as a summer-sea. 

I saw it fall, as falls a chief 
By an arrow in the fight. 
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leat 
At the crashing of its might ! 
And the startled deer to their coverts drew. 
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew 1 

'Tis fallen! but think thou not I weep 
For the forest's pride o'erthrown; 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



33 



An old man's tears lie far too deep, 

• To be poured for this alone ! 
But by that sign too well I know, 
That a youthful head must soon be low! 

A youthful head, with its shining hair, 

And its bright quick-flashing eye — 
— Well may I weep! for the boy is fair, 
Too fair a thing to die ! 
But on his brow the mark is set — 
Oh! could my life redeem him yet! 

He bounded by me as I gazed 

Alone on the fatal sign, 
And it seemed like sunshine when he raised 
His joyous glance to mine ! 
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, 
Bo full of life — but he must die I 

He must, he must! in that deep dell, 

By that dark water's side, 
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell, 
But an heir of his father's died. 
A.id he — there's laughter in his eye, 
Joy in his voice — yet he must die! 

I've borne him in these arms, that now 

Are nerveless and unstrung ; 
And must I see, on that fair brow, 
The dust untimely flung 1 
I must! — yon green oak, branch and crest. 
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast ! 

The noble boy! — how proudly sprung 

The falcon from his hand! 
It seemed like youth to see him young, 
A flower in his father's land ! 
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, 
F or the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. 

Say not 'tis vain! — I tell thee, some 

Are warned by a meteor's light, 
Or a pale bird flitting calls them home. 
Or a voice on the winds by night; 
And they must go ! — and he too, he — 
— Wo for the fall of the glorious Tree ! 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 



It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of 
the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. lie is 
Bupposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of 
Rodensicin, and traverse the air to (he opposite castle ofi 
Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted that the sound of his 
ohanlom horsoeand hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden 
before the commencement of the last war in Germany. 



Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour 
If thou didst not hear the blast 



Of the savage horn, from the mountain-tower, 
As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed, 

And the roar of the stormy chase went by, 
Through the dark unquiet sky! 

The stag sprung up from his mossy bed 
When he caught the piercing sounds. 

And the oak-boughs crashed to his antlered head 
As he flew from the viewless hounds ; 

And the falcon soared from her cra£fgy height, 
Away through the rushing night! 

The banner shook on its ancient hold, 

And the pine in its desert-place, 
As the cloud and tempest onward rolled 

With the din of the trampling race ; 
And the glens were filled with the laugh 3»i'? ?V(B.% 

And the bugle, ringing out! 

From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell, 

At the castle's festive board. 
And a sudden pause came o'er the swell 

Of the harp's triumphal chord; 
And the Minnesinger's* thrilling lay 

In the hall died fast away. 

The convent's chanted rite was stayed, 

And the hermit dropped his beads, 
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade, 

At the neigh of the phantom steeds. 
And the church-bells pealed to the rocking blast 

As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed. 

The storm hath swept with the chase away. 

There is stillness in the sky. 
But the mother looks on her son to-day, 

With a troubled heart and eye. 
And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care 

'Midst the gleam of her golden hair! 

The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long 

Must hear the voice of war. 
And a clash of spears our hills among, 

And a trumpet from afar; 
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie. 

For the Huntsman hath gone by ! 

BRANDENBURGH HARVESl-SONG i 

FROM THE GERMAN OP LA MOTTE POUaDE. 

The corn, in golden light. 

Waves o'er the plain; 
The sickle's gleam is bright; 

Full swells the grain. 

Now send we far around 
Our harvest lay ! 



* Minnesinger, love-singer ; the wandering ninstreis 
Germany were iso allied in the middle ages. 
tFor the year of the Q.ueen of Prussia's deatli. 



S4 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



— Alas! a heavier sound 
Comes o'er the day ! 

On every breeze and knell 
The hamlets pour, — 

— We know its cause too well, 
She is no more ! 

Earth shrouds with burial sod 
Her soft, eye's blue, — 

— Now o'er the gifts of God 
Fall tears like dew! 

THE SHADE OP THESEUS. 

ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION. 

Know ye not when our dead 

From sleep to battle sprung? 
-When the Persian charger's tread 

On their covering greensward rung! 
When the trampling march of foes 

Had crushed our vines and flowers, 
When jewelled crests arose 

Through the holy laurel bowers. 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone. 
When masts were on the seas. 
And spears on Marathon. 

There was one, a leader crowned. 

And armed for Greece that day; 
But the falchions made no sound 

On his gleaming war-array. 
In the battle's front he stood, 

With his tall and shadowy crest; 
But the arrows drew no blood 

Though their path was through his breast. 

When banners caught the breezCj 
When helms in sunlight shone. 
When masts were on the seas. 
And spears on Marathon. 

His sword was seen to flash 

Where the boldest deeds were done; 
But it smote without a clash; 

The stroke was heard by nonel 
His voice was not of those 

That swelled the rolling blast. 
And his steps fell hushed like snows - 

'Twas the Shade of Theseus passed ! 

When banners caught the breeze. 
When helms in sunlight shone. 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 

far sweeping through the foe, 

With a fiery charge he bore; 
A ud tn(! Mede »etl many a bow 

On the sounding ocean-shore, 



And the foaming waves grew red, 
And the sails were crowded fast. 

When the sons of Asia fled, 

As the Shade of Theseus passed! 

When banners caught the breeze, 
When helms in sunlight shone. 
When masts were on the seas, 
And spears on Marathon. 



ANCIENT GREEK SONG OP EXILE 

Where is the summer, with her golden sun ! 

— That festal glory hath not passed from earth' 
For me alone the laughing day is done! 

Where is the summer with her voice of mirth? 
— Par in my own bright land ! 

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe 
and die 
On the green hills'? the founts, from sparry caves 
Through the wild places bearing melody? 

The reeds, low whispering o'er the river wavesi 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the temples, through the dim wood 
shining, 
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains 1 
Where the sweet sisters of my youth entwining 
The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes'? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous 
throngs. 
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades'? 
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs. 
And the pine forests, and the olive shades'? 
— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, 
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's 
dreams 7 
— Oh ! that my life were as a southern flower's ! 
I might not languish then by these chill streams, 
Far from my own bright land! 



GREEK FUNERAL CHANT OR MYRI- 
OLOGUE. 



"Les Chants Funebres par lesquels on explore en Grece la 
mort de ses procbes, prennent le nom paiticulier de Myriolo- 
gia, comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes 
Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa 
mere, ses fiilles, sessceurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus prochea 
parentes qui sont la, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en 
6panchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure 
de tendi-esse pour le diifunt, la douleur qu'elle ressent de sa 
perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez 
une de leurs parentes ou de leurs aniies. La elles changeni 



LAYS CF MANY LANDS. 



35 



de vetem sns, s'habillent de Wane, comme pour la c6remonie 
nuptialt, avec cetle difference, qu'elles gardent la tete ni;e, 
les chevcux 6pajs et pendants. Ces apprfits lermines, lea 
parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil ; toutes se ran- 
eent en circle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de 
nouyeau ?>, comme la premiere fois, sans regie et sans con- 
trainte A ces plaintes spontan6es succedent bieniot des la- 
mentations d'une autre espece : ce sont les Myriologues. 
Ordinairement c'est la phis proclie parente qui prononce le 
sien la premiere; apres elle les autres parentes, les amies, les 
simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composes el 
?.liant6a par les femmes. lis sont toujours improvises, tou- 
jours en vers, et toujours chant^s sur un air qui dilTere d'un 
lieu a un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donn6, reste invaria- 
hlement coi,sicr6.a, ce genre de poesie." 
Chants Populaires de la Grece Maderne, par C Fauriel. 



A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed 

of the young, 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

mother sung. 
— "lanthis! dost thou sleep? — Thfju sleepest ! — 

but tliis is not the rest. 
The breathing and the rosy calm, 1 have pillowed 

on my breast! 
I lulled thae not to this repose, lanthis ! my sweet 

son! 
As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I 

have done 
— How is it that I bear to stand and look upon 

thee now? 
And that I die not. seeing death on thy pale glo- 
rious brow 1 

" I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair 

and brave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the 

grave ! 
Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily 

thine eye 
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved 

to lie ! 
And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed 

on breezes borne, 
When to thy couch I came and said, — 'Wake, 

hunter, wake, 'iis morn!' 
yet art thou lovely still, my flower ! untouched by 

slow decay, 
— And I, the withered stem, remain~I would that 

grief might slay ! 

" Oh ! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this 

would be ! 
1 knew too well that length of days was not a gift 

for thee ! 
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing 

Jiigh ;— 
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me 

thou must die ! 
That thou must die, my fearless one I where 

swords were flashing red. — 



— Why doth a mother live to say — my first-borr 

and my dead 1 
They tell me of tliy youthful fame, they talk of 

victory won — 
— Speak thou, and I will hear ! my child, lanthis ! 

my sweet son!" 

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbtd 

of the young, 
A fair-haired bride the Funeral Chant amidst 

her weeping sung. 
— "lanthis! look'st thou not on me? — Can love 

indeed be fledl 
When was it wo before to gaze upon thy steady 

headl 
I would that I had followed thee, lanthis, my be- 
loved ! 
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful 

hearts are proved ! 
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at 

thy side — 
— It would have been a blessed thing togefhei 

had we died ! 

"But where was I when thou didst fall beneath 

the fatal sword % 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peace- 

ful board % 
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow 

of the vine. 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy 

shrine ? 
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops 

from thy heart 
Fast gushing like a mountain-spring ! — and couldst 

thou thus depart? 
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy 

fleeting breath ? 
— Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should 

have been in death ! 

"Yes! I was with thee when the dance through 

mazy rings was led. 
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and 

when the feast was spread j 
But not where noble blood flowed forth, where 

sounding javelins flew — 
— Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and 

not its last adieu? 
What now can breathe of gladness more, what 

scene, what hour, what tone ? 
The blue skies* fade with all their lights, they 

fade, since thou art gone ! 
Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my 

tears unmoved — 
— Take me from this dark world with thefi, 

lanthis ! my beloved I" 



36 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed 

of the young, 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

sister sung. 
" lanthis! brother of my soul ! — oh ! were are now 

the days 
That laughed among the deep green hills, on all 

our infant plays? 
When we two sported by the streams, or tracked 

them to their source, 
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet 

fearless course! 
— I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills 

descend, 
I see thy bounding step no more — my brother and 
my friend ! 

"I come with flowers — for spring is come ! — lan- 
this ! art thou here ? 

I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them 
on thy bier ! 

Thou shouldst be crowned with victory's crown — 
but oh ! more meet theij seem, 

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the 
stream ! 

More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus 
early low — 

— Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sun- 
shine's glow : 

The golden glow that through thy heart was wont 
such joy to send, 

— Wo, that it smiles, and not fft thee ! — my brother 
and my friend !" 



THE PARTING SONG. 



This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his 
"Chansons Populaires de la Grcce Moderne," and accom- 
^anied by some very interesting particulars respecting the ex- 
tempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs 
us they are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed 
to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country 
and friends. 



A YOUTH went forth to exile, from a home 
Such as to early thought gives images, 
The longest treasured and most oft recalled, 
And brightest kept, of love ; — a mountain home, 
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines 
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart 
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, 
Aiid half unconscious prayer ; — a Grecian home, 
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung, 
And, through the dimness of its ohve shades. 
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam 
()l shining pillars from the fanes of old. 
An/' this was what he left ! — Yet many leave 
Fai more: — the glistening eye, that first from 
theirs 



Called out the soul's bright smile ; the gentle hand, 
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps 
To where the violets lay, the tender voice 
That earhest taught them what deep melody 
Lives in aflection's tones. — He left not these. 
— Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part 
With all a mother's love ! — A bitterer grief 
Was his — To part unloved! — of her urloved, 
That should have breathed upon his heart, like 

Spring, 
Fostering its young faint flowers ! 

Yet had he friendSj 
And they went forth to cheer him on his way 
Unto the parting spot — and she too went. 
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. 

The parting spot was reached : — a lone deep glen, 
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount 
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes ; and above, 
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven 
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore 
Their crowning snows. — Upon a rock he sprung, 
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze 
Through the wild laurels back ; but then a light 
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye, 
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips 
A burst of passionate song. 

" Farewell, farewell ) 
"I hear thee, O thou rustling stream! — thou'rt 

from my native dell. 
Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound — a mur- 
mur of farewell I 
And fare thee well — flow on, my stream ! — flow on, 

thou bright and free ! 
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments 

for itie ; 
But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's 

loving years. 
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast 

known my tears ; 
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret 

tears have known : 
The woods can tell where he hath wept, (hat ever 

wept alone ! 

" I see thee once again, my home ! thou 'rt there 
amidst thy vines, 

And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of sum- 
mer shines. 

It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering 
through thy groves. 

The hour that brings the son from toil, the houi 
the mother loves ! 

— The hour the mother loves! — for me beloved it 
hath not been ; 

Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed 
scene I 



LAYS OF MAjSr\ LANDS. 



37 



Whose quiet beauty o'er niy soul through distant 

years will come — 
—Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be 

then, my home 1 

" Not as the dead ! — no, not the dead ! — We speak 

of them — we keep 
Their names, like light that must not fade, within 

our bosoms deep ! 
We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love the 

lay they sung, 
We pass with softer step the place they filled our 

band among ! 
But I depart hke sound, like dew, like aught that 

leaves on earth 
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its 

bi.th ! 
I go ! the echo of the rock a thousand songs may 

swell 
When mine is a forgotten voice. — Woods, moun- 
tains, home, farewell ! 

"And farewell, mother! — I have borne in lonely 
silence long. 

But now the current of my soul grows passionate 
and strong ! 

And I will speak! though hut the wind that wan- 
ders through the sky. 

And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling 
streams reply. 

Yes ! I will speak ! — within my breast whate'er 
hath seemed to be, 

There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have 
gushed for thee ! 

Brightly it would have gushed, but thou, my mo- 
ther ! thou hast ';hrown 

Back on the forests and the wilds what should 
have been thine own ! 

" Then fare thee well ! I leave thee not in loneli- 
ness to pine, 

Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer 
brow than mine ! 

Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! — it may be, 
that a tone 

Yet from my burning heart may pierce, through 
thine, when I am gone I 

And thou perchance mayst weep for him on whom 
thou ne'er hast smiled. 

And the grave give his birthright back to thy ne- 
glected child I 

Might but my spirit thenietutn, and 'midst its kin- 
dred dwell, 

And quench its thirst with love's free tears ! — 'tis 
all a dream — farewell !" 

" Farewell !" — the echo died with that deep 

word, 
Yet died not so the late repentant pang 
By the strain quickened in the mother's breast ! 

a 



There had passed many changes o'er her brew, 
And cheek, and eye ; but into one bright flood 
Of tears at last all melted ; and she full 
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried 
" Return, return, my son!" — the echo caught 
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, 
Murmuring — "Return, my son!" 



THE SULIOTE MOTHER. 



It is related in a Fi-ench Life of Ali Paclia, that several rf 
the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkis,*) troo])s into 
their mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, 
after chanting a wild song-, precipitated tlieniselves, with their 
children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoraing tlie slaves 
of the enemy. 



She stood upon the loftiest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky, 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

"Dost thou see them, boyl — through the duskj 

pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shmes \ 
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's 

crest ? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast t 
Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with 

joyl 
— That sight hath cost thee a father, boy !" 

For in the rocky strait beneath, 

Lay Suliote sire and son; 
They had heaped high the piles of death 

Before the pass was won. 

" They had crossed the torrent, and on they cornel 
Wo for the mountain hearth and home! 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear, 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep, 
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keept" 

And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 

And now the cymbal's clang. 
Till even the upper air was stirred. 

As cliff* and hollow rang. 

" Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ' 
What saith the trumpet to Sub's wild^ 
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire. 
As if at a glance of thine armed sire 1 
— Still ! — be thou still ! — there are brave men ktw- 
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see hiii> 
now 1" 

But nearer came the clash of steel, 
And louder swelled the horn. 



38 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And farther yet the tambour's peal 
Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hearest thou the sound of their savage mirth 1 
— Boy ; thou wert free when I gave thee birth, 
Free, and how cherished, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath blessed thee, as I have done! 
Ay, and unchained must his loved ones be — 
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!" 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung, 

And fast the fair child bore, 
A veil upon the wind was flung, 

A cry — and all was o'er! 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 



The following piece is founded on a beau*""! part of the 
Greek 'iineral service, in which relatives an' friends are in- 
vited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and 
to Did the-r final adieu. 

See Christian Researches in the Mediterranean. 

'Tis hard to lay into the earth 

A countenance so benign! a form that walked 
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth ! 

Wilson. 



Come near! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look 0-. your brother, and embrace him now. 

In still and solemn trust! 
Come near! — once more let kindred lips be pressed 
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest! 

Look yet on this young face! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone, 

Gladdening its hearth and racel 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart im- 
pressed — 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest! 



Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings! — Yesterday 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay. 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the bless- 
ed ! 
— Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest! 

Look yet on him, whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth! 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die? 
— But not where death has power may love be 

blessed — 
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again? 
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, 

The lovely must depart! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best? 
Come near ! and bear the early-called to rest ! 

Look on him I is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase? 
— Too still and sad the smile upon his face. 

Yet that, even that, must fade! 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest, 
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest! 

His voice of mirth had ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast* 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! Ijear him to his rest . 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quenched! — for him the 

past 
Is sealed. He may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away! 
All is not here of our beloved and blessed — 
—Leave ve the sleeper with his God to restl 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



Judicio ha daOo esta no vista hazana 
Del valor que en los siglos venideros 
Tendrin los Hijos de la fuene Espana, 
Hijos de tal padres herederos. 
Hallo sola en Numancia todo quanto 
Debe con justo titulo caniarse. 
Y lo que puede dar materia al canto. 

Numancia de Cervantes. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The history of Spain records two instances of 
the severe and self-devoting heroism, which forms 
the subject of the following dramatic poem. The 
first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which 
was defended in 1294 for Sancho, King of Castile, 
during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by 
Guzman, surnamed the Good.* The second is 
related of Alonzo Lopez de Texeda, who, until 
his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, 
maintained the 'city of Zamora for the children of 
Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Hen- 
rique of Trastamara.t 

Impressive as were the circumstances which 
distinguished both these memorable sieges, it ap- 
peared to the author of the following pages that a 
deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of na- 
tionality, might be imparted to the scenes in which 
she has feebly attempted " to describe high passions 
and high actions ;" by connecting a religious feel- 
ing with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty 
which had thus been proved "faithful unto death," 
and by surrounding her ideal dramatis personiB 
with recollections derived from the heroic legends 
of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, 
employed the agency of imaginary characters, and 
fixed upon " Valencia del Cid" as the scene to 
give them 

" a local habitation and a name." 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Alvar Gonzalez, Governor of Valencia. 

AkpHONSO, ) jj^ ^^^^_ 

Carlos, ) 

Hernandez, .... J. Priest. 

Abdullah, ^ A Moorish Prince, Chief of 

i the army besieging Valencia. 

Garcias, A Spanish Knight. 

El.mina, Wife to Gonzalez. 

XiMENA, Her Daughter. 

TuERESA, An Attendant. 

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, d^'C. 

' See Quihtana's " Vidas de E.spanoles celebre.s," p. 53. 
t tiee Uie Preface to Southey's "Chronicle of the Cid." 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 

SCENE — ROOM IN A PALACE OP VALENCIA. 

XEVIENA singing to a lute. 

BALLAD. 

" Thou hast not been with a festal throng. 

At the pouring of the wine ; 
Men bear not from the Hall of Song, 
A mien so dark as thine ! 

— There's blood upon thy shield. 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
— Thou hast brought, from some disastrous field. 
That brow of wrath and gloom !" 

" And is there blood upon my shield 1 

— Maiden I it well may be ! 
We have sent the streams from our battle-fieldj 
All darkened to the sea ! 

We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine ; 
And the ground is wet — but not with rain, 
Deep-dyed — but not with wine ! 

" The ground is wet — but not with rain — 

We have been in war array, 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hath bathed her soil to-day. 
I have seen the strong man die, 
And the stripling meet his fate, 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by. 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait. 

"In the gloomy B.oncesvalles' Strait 
There are helms and lances cleft; 
And they that moved at morn elate 
On a bed of heath are left ! 

There's many a fair young face 
Which the war steed hath gone o'er j 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that come no more 1" 

" Alas ! for love, for woman's breast, 

If wo like this must be ! 
— Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle cjeat 
And a white plume waving free 1 
With his proud quick flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state f 



40 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Doth he come from where the sworJs flashed high, 
111 the Roncesvalles' Strait 1" 

'* In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I saw and marked him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate, 
When the pride of manhood fell ! 
— But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns 
Till it rests amidst the slain !" 

" Thou canst not say that he lies low. 

The lovely and the brave ! 
Oh ! none could look on his joyous brow, 
And think upon the grave ! 
Dark, dark perchance the day 
Hath been with valour's fate, 
But he is on his homeward way, 

From the Roncesvalles' Strait 1" 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow. 

And o'er liis graceful head ; 
And the war-horse will not wake him now. 

Though it bruise his greensward bed ! 
— I have seen the stripling die, 
And the strong man meet his fate, 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by. 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait !" 
ELMNA enters. 

Elmina. Your songs are not as those of other 
days. 
Mine own Ximena ! — Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts? 

Ximena. My mother, this 
Is not the free air of our mountam-wilds; 
And these are not the halls, wherein my voice 
First poured those gladdening strains. 

Elmina. A'as ! thy heart 
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-war.dering breezes of the joyous hills, 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, 
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent-streams 
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt. 
Thou shouldst have tracked ere now, with step as 

light. 
Their wild wood-paths. 

Ximena. I would not but have shared 
These hours of wo and peril, though the deep 
Arid solemn feelings wakening at tlieir voice, 
Chiim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves. 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth 

hush 
AD floating whispery sound, all bird-notes wild 
O' th' summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. — And 'tis well ! 
Should not a hero's child be trained tc hear 



The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 
In the fixed face of Death without dismav? 

Elmina. Wo ! wo ! that aught so gentle and sci 
young 
Should thus be called to stand 1' the tempest's path, 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon ! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot, but thou, my child, shouldst 

move 
As a light breeze of heaven, through summef- 

bowers. 
And not o'er foaming billows. We are falln 
On dark and evil days! 

Ximena. Ay, days, that wake 
All to their tasks ! — Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring; and womanhood 
Is summoned into conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior souls. But we will take 
Our toils upon us nobly! Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts ; 
Not amidst joy. 

Elmina. Hast thou some secret wo 
That thus thou speak'st 1 

Ximena. What sorrow should be mine, 
Unknown to thee 1 

Elmina. Alas ! the baleful air 
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n. 
And wrought an early withering ! — Thou Xiast 

crossed 
The paths of Death, and ministered to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sutdieam for a still, 
Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath caught 
A wild and high expression, which at times 
Fades unto desolate calmness, most unlike 
What youth's bright mien should wear. My gen- 
tle child 1 
I look on thee in fear ! 

Ximena. Thou hast no cause 
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step 
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams; 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour. 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chilled their fiery blood ; — it is no time 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours, 
We trod the woodland mazes, when young leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. — My Fathercomes-- 
Oh 1 speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim, 

GONZALEZ enters. 
Elmina. My noble lord ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



41 



W rlcomo from this day's toil ! — It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mailed bosom from the corslet's weight, 
To rest at fall of eve 1 

Gonzalez. There may be rest 
For the tired peasant, when the vesper bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive, he may sit at eve, 
Watching his children's sport : but unto hhn 
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain- 
height, 
When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten 
realms 
-Who speaks of rest? 
Ximena. My father, shall I fill 
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute 
Whose sounds thou lovest? 

Gonzalez. If there be strains of power 
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to 

those ! 
I have need of such, Ximena ! we must hear 
No melting music now. 

Ximena. I know all high 
Heroic ditties of the elder time, 
Sung by the mountain-Christians,(l)in the holds 
Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear 
The print of Freedom's step ; and all wild strains 
Wherein the dark serranos* teach the rocks 
And the pine fDrests deeply to resound 
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear 
The war song of thine ancestor, the Cid? 

Gonzalez. Ay, speak of him ; for in that name 
is power. 
Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him! 
We are his children! They that can look back 
I' th' annals of their house on such a name, 
How should they take dishonour by the hand. 
And o'er the threshold of their father's halls 
First lead her as a guest? 

Elmina. Oh, why is this ? 
How my heart sinks! 

Gonzalez. It must not fail thee yet, 
Daughter of heroes! — thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst num- 

• her 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence 
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel 
O'erawed, shrank back before them? — Ay, the earth 



" Serranos," mountaineers. 
6* 



Doth call them martyrs, but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brier aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and sc-pe 
Lay naught but dust.— And earth doth call thorn 

martyrs ! 
"Why, Heaven but claimed their blood, their lives, 

and not 
The things which grow as tendrils round theii 

hearts ; 
No, not their children! 

Elmina. Meanest thou? — knowest thou 
aught 1— 
I cannot utter it — My sons ! my sons ! 
Is it of them?— Oh! wouldst thou speak of them? 

Gonzalez. A mother's heart divineth but too 
well! 

Elmina. Speak, I adjure thee! — I can bear it 
all.— 
Where are my children? 

Gonzalez. In the Moorish camp 
Whose lines have girt the city. 

Ximena. But they live ? 
— All is not lost, my mother! 

Ebnina. Say, they live. 

Gonzalez. Elmina, still they live. 

Elmina. But captives ! — They 
Whom my fond heart had imagined to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff amidst the wilds 
Where the rock- eagle seemed not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom! — And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor! — Oh! how was this? 

Gonzalez. Alas ! our brave Alphonso, in the 
pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls. 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elmina. 'Tis enough. 
— And when shall they be ransomed? 

Gonzalez. There is asked 
A ransom far too high. 

Elmina. What! have we wealth 
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters? — Take thou all for them. 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur fuom us, 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! — Why, thou art one, 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as the plumage to a warrior's helm. 
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, 
Thou knovv^est not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart. 
Amidst its deep affections undisturbed, 
May dwell in silence. 

Ximena. Father! doubt thou not- 
But we will bind ourselves to poverty, 
With glad devoted ness, if this, but this, 
May win them back. — Distrust us not, mv fattiei 
We can bear all things. 

Gonzalez. Can ye bear disgrace 1 



42 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Ximena. We were not born for this. 

Gonzalez. No, thou sayst well! 
Hold to that lofty faith.— My wife, my child! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns 1 — If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light ! — But he, for whom 
Freedom and life may but be worn with shame, 
Elath nought to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die! 

Elraina. Gonzalez, who must die? 

Gonzalez {hurriedly). They on whose lives a 
fearful price is set. 
But to be paid by treason! — Is 't enough 1 
Or must I yet seek words 1 

Elmina. That look saith more! 
Thou canst not mean 

Gonzalez. I do! why dwells there not 
Power in a glance to speak it!— They must die ! 
They— must their names be told — Our sons must 

die 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Ximena. Oh! lookup! 
My mother, sink not thus! — Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elmina {in a low voice). Whose knell was in 
the breeze! — No, no, not theirs! 
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? 
—And there is hope! — I will not be subdued— 
I will not hear a whisper of despair! 
For Nature is all powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. — Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope I 

Gonzalez {solemnly). Hope but in Him 
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quivered in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice 
Through the still clouds, and on the breathless air, 
Commanding to withhold ! — Earth has no hope, 
It rests with Him. 

Elmina. Thou canst not tell me this! 
Thou father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gonzalez. If there have been 
Men in whose bosoms Nature's voice hath made 
[ts accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 
Whispered by faith and honour, lift thy hands. 
And, to that Heaven, which arms the brave with 

strength, 
!'ray, that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting ! 

Elmina. Then their doom is sealed ! 
Thou wut not save thy children? 

Gonzalez. Hast thou cause, 



Wife of my youth ! to deem it lies within 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that word — traitor? — They that sleep 
On their proud battle-fields, th sires and mine, 
Died not for tliis ! 

Elmina. Oh, cold and hard of heart! 
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight! — Men ! men ! too much is yours 
Of vantage; ye, that w-ith a sound, a breath, 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted up affections, o'er whose void 
Our yearning hearts must wither! — So it is, 
Dominion must be won !: — Nay, leave me not- — 
My heart is bursting, and 1 must be heard! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation! — Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength ? — I must be heard ! 
Give me my sons! 

Gonzqlez. That they may live to hide 
With covering hands th' indignant flush of shame 
On their young brows, when men shall speak of 

him 
They called their father ! — Was the oath, where 

by, 

On th' altar of my faith, I bound myself, 
With an answerving spirit to maintain, 
This free and christian city for my God, 
And for my king, a writing traced on sand? 
That passionate tears should wash it from the 

earth, 
Or e'en the life-drops of a bleeding heart 
ElTace it, as a billow sweeps away 
The last light vessel's wake? — Then never more 
Let man's deep vows be trusted! — though enforced 
By all th' appeals of high remembrances. 
And silent claims o' th' sepulchres, wherein 
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, 
On their good swords ! Thinkst thou / feel no 

pangs? 
He that hath given me sons, doth know the heart 
Whose treasures he recalls. — Of this no more. 
'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate cross 
Still, from our ancient temples, must look up 
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its 

foot 
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors — men who died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy — 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample! 
Elmina. Scorn me not 
In mine extreme of misery ! — Thou art strong — 
Thy heart is not as mine. — My brain grows wili 
1 know not what I ask!— And yet 'twere but 
Anticipating fate — since it must fall, 
That cross must fall at last! There is no power, 




No hope within this city of the grave, 
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark, 
Than the arrow of the desert. Even the skies 
O'erhang the desolate splendour of her domes 
With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth, 
From the duUclouds, wild menacing forms and signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood. 
But who shall cope with famine and disease. 
When leagued with armed foes? — Where now 

the aid, 
Where the long-promised lances of Castile? 
— We are forsaken, in our utmost need. 
By heaven and earth forsaken 1 

Gonzalez. If this be, 
(And yet I will not deem it) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 
Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to 

death, 
Through high conviction that their suffering land. 
By the free blood of martyrdom alone, 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elmina. Oh ! I have stood 
Beside thee through the beating storms of hfe, 
With the true heart of unrepining love, 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily, 
In the parched vineyard, or the harvest-field. 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day; — But now the hour, 
The heavy'hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, 
Owning that wo is mightier! — Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband! — Let not her, 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home, a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gonzalez. Urge me not 
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been 

found 
Worthy a brave man's love, oh ! urge me not 
To guilt, which through the midst of blinding 

tears, 
In its own hues thou seest not ! — Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elmina. All, all thy gentle race. 
The beautiful beings that around thee grew, 
Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all? 

She too, thy daughter — doth her smile un- 
marked 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day? 
Shadows are gathering round her — seest thou not? 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send j 
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul, 
Tellincr of earh <ate. I 



Gonzalez. I see a change 
Far nobler on her brow! — She is as one. 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks, — Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laughed upon th' awakening 

heart, 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source 
Lies deeper in the soul. — And let the torch 
Which but illumed the gUttering pageant, fade! 
The altar-flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess. 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven ! — She hath 

put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, 
Even as a breastplate — Ay, men look on her, 
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks, 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fevered lips ; they look on her, 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

Elmina. And seest thou not 
In that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A fearful inspiration ? — They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought, 
Investing youth with grandeur ! — From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. — Kneel with ms, 
Ximena, kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied; 
— His children's lives ! 

Ximena. Alas ! this may not be, 
Mother ! — I can not. [Exit Ximena. 

Gonzalez. My heroic child ! 
— A terrible sacrifice thou claimest, O God ! 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death ! 

Elmina. Is't thus in thine ? 
Away ! — what time is given thee to resolve 
On ? — what I cannot utter ! — Speak ! thou knowesi 
Too well what I would say. 

Gonzalez. Until — ask not! 
The time is brief. 

Elmina. Thou saidst — 1 heard not right— 

Gonzalez. The time is brief. 

Elmina. What! must we burst all ties 
Wherewith the thriUing chords of life are twined, 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man, in his cold heartlessness, hath darec' 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments? — Why the snntenc«<i 
wretch. 



Me om whose soul there rests a b) other's blood 
Poured forth in slumber, is allowed more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute! — It is not thus! 
We must have Time to school us. 

Gonzalez. We have but 
To bow the head in silenc?, when Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elniina. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and 
gentle words, 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
Tile look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all! 
-A faithless mist, a desert-vapour wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled! — There is 

none. 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path 
But as the heir of his great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall bear his trophies well. — And this is love ! 
This is man's love! — What marvel? — you ne'er 

made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy. 
While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings 
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair 
Waved softly to your breath! — You ne'er kept 

watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 
On your dim weary eye; not yours the face 
Which, early faded through fond care for him, 
Hung o'er his sleep, and duly as Heaven's light, 
Was there to greet his wakening! You ne'er 

smoothed 
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 
Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your Up to his 
When fever parched it; hushed his wayward cries, 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 
No! these are woman's tasks! — In these her 

youth, 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 
Steal from her all unmarked ! — My boys ! my 

l.)oys ! 
Hat*h vain affection borne with all for this 1 
—Why were ye given me 1 

Gonzalez. Is there strength in man 
Thus to endure 1 — That thou couldst read thro' all 
Us depths of silent agony, the heart 
'l"'hy voice of wo doth rend ! 

Elmina. Thy heart! — thy heart! — Away! it 
(eels not now! 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
M nU) the infant's weakness ; nor shall Heaven 



Spare you that bitter chastening ! May j'cu live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain! — For me, my voice 
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds ; my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep. 
Though kings lead armies o'er us, we shall sleep 
Wrapt in earth's covering mantle! you the while 
Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls, 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never mora 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows — dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, 
But all — all glorious — conquerors, chieftains, 

kings 
To people that cold void ! — And when the strength 
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast 
Of the slirill clarion gives your heart no more 
A fiery wakening; if at last you pine 
For the glad voices, and the bounding steps 
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp 
Of twining arras, and all the joyous light 
Of eyes that laughed with youth, and made your 

board 
A place of sunshine; — When those days are come, 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world, the smilins, faithless world. 
Which hath swept past you long, and bid it 

quench 
Your soul's deep thirst v/iihfame ! immortal /ai;it T 
Fame to the sick of heart I — a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory, unto him tliat dies 
I' th' burning waste, for water ! 

Gonzalez. This from thee ! 
Now the last drop of bitterness is poured. 
Elmina — I forgive thee! [Exit Elmina, 

Aid me. Heaven ! 

From whom alone is power ! — Oh ! thou hast set 
Duties, so stern of aspect, in my path, 
They almost, to my startled gaze, assume 
The hue of things less hallowed ! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials ! — Doth not he 
Who made us know the limits of our strength'.' 
My wife ! my sons ! — Away ! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus I 
[Exit Gonzalei 

SCENE — THE AISLE OF A GOTHIC CHURCH. 

HERNANDEZ, GARCIAS, and others. 

Hernandez. The rites are closed. Now, valian* 
men, depart. 
Each to his place — I may not say, of rest; 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But blessed be they who toil 
For after-days ! — All high and holy thoughts 



Be with you, warriors, through the hngering hours 
Of the night-watch ! 

Garcias. Ay, father ! we have need 
Of high and iioly thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Ourliearts against despair. Yet have I been 
From youth a son of war. The stars have looked 
A thousand times upon my couch of heath. 
Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark-red waves looked e'en as though their 

source 
Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 
Of noble hearts ; while many a knightly crest 
Rolled with them to the deep. And in the years 
Of my long exile and captivity, 
With the fierce Arab, I have watched beneath 
The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm. 
At midnight, in the desert; while the wind 
Swelled with the lion's roar, and heavily 
The fearfulness and might of solitude 
Pressed on my weary heart. 

Hernandez (thoughtfully.) Thou little knowest 
Of what is solitude ! — I tell thee, those 
For whom — in eartli's remotest nook — howe'er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas — there beats one human heart. 
There breathes one being unto whom their name 
Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound 
Heaid o'er the din of life ! are not alone ! 
Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone ; 
For there is that on earth with which they hold 
A brotherhood of soul ! — Call him alone. 
Who stands shut out from this ! — And let not those 
Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with 

love, 
Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Glorying in that proud lot I — A lonely hour 
[s on its way to each, to all; for Death 
Knows no companionship. 

Garcias. I have looked on Death 
In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weighed down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries. 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth, 
Omens in Heaven ! — The summer-skies put forth 
No clear bright stars above us, but at times. 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath, 
Marshall their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor-steeds, the array 
Of" spears and banners, tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 

Hernandez. Ay, last night I too 
Ke[)t vigil, gazing on the angry heavens ; 
And 1 beheld the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts i' th' air, when, as they closed, 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were fl ung 



Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth. 
And chariots seemed to whirl, and steeds to sink. 
Bearing down crested vvarriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy ;~then swift darkness rushed 
Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. — I looked— 
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 
Was blotted from heaven's face ! — I looked again— 
And from the brooding mass of clouds leaped forth 
One meteor-sword, wliich o'er the reddening sea 
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes give 
Unto a rocking citadel ! — I beheld. 
And yet my spirit sunk not. 

Garcias. Neither deem 
That mine hath blenched. — But these are sights 

and sounds 
To awe the firmest. — Knowest thou what we hear 
At midnight from the walls? — Were 't but the deep 
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour's peal, 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses. 
Quickening its fiery currents. But our ea,rs 
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell 
For brave men in theif noon of strength cut down, 
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge 
Faint swelhng through the streets. Then e'en 

the air 
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 
Sighed on its hollow breezes ! — To my soul, 
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping wo 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Hernandez {with solemnity.) If to plunfe 
In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards; and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows; 
If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! — but there are thiiigs 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, 
And courage tempered with a holier fire ! 
Well mayst thou say, that these are fearful times, 
Therefore be firm, be patient! — Thric is strength, 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 
To bear up manhood with a stormy jiij, 
When red swords meet in lightning!— [iiit our taisA 
Is more, and nobler! — We have to endure, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land. 
And to defend an altar ! — If we fall, 
So that our blood make but the millionth part 
Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith! — Think but on this, 
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude. 
Suffering, yet hoping all things — Faje ye well. 

Garcias. Father, farewell. 

[Exeunt Garcias Xnd kis,fulioioen 




Hernandez. These men have earthly ties 
And bondage on their natures! — To the cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but half 
Their energies and hopes. But he whom Heaven 
Hath called to be th' awakener of a land, 
Should have his soul's affections all absorbed 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment, as a mountain-born 
And a mighty stream, with all its vassal-rills 
Swreeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 
To dally with the flowers. 
Hark! What quick step 

Comes hurrying through the gloom at this dead 
hour "? 

ELMINA. enters 

Elmina. Are not all hours as one to misery? — 
Why 
Should site take note of time, for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose? 

Hernandez. I know tliy griefs; 
But there are trials for the noble heart 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding ear 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
On the green shore, by him who perishes 
'Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

Elmina. Think thou not 
I sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With an imperious claim, from all whose form, 
Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering ! 
Father! I ask thine aid. 

Hernandez. There is no aid 
For thee or for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud, 
As in the shining and the glorious Hght. 

Elmina. There is no aid ! — Art thou a man 
of God? 
Art thou a man of sorrow — (for the world 
Doth call thee such; — and hast thou not been 

taught 
By God and sorrow— mighty as they are, 
To own the claims of misery ? 

Hernandez. Is there power 
With me to save thy sons ? — Implore of Heaven ! 

Elmina. Doth not Heaven work its purposes 
oy man ? 
[ tell thee, thou canst save them ! — Art thou not 
Sonzalez' counsellor? — Unto him thy words 
Are e'en as oracles 

Hernandez. And therefore? — Speak! 
The noble daughter of Pelayo's line 
Hatn. nought to ask, unworthy of the name 
Whicn is a nation's heritage. — Dost thou shrink? 

Elmina. Have pity on me, father! — I must 
speaK 



That, from the thought of which, but yesterday, 

I had recoiled in scorn! — But this is past. 

Oh! we grow humble in our agonies, 

And to the dust — their birth-place — bow the heads 

That wore the crown of glory ! — I am weak — 

My chastening is far more than I can bear. 

Hernandez. These are no times for weakness. 
On our hills 
The ancient cedars, in their gathered might, 
Are battling with the tempest; and the flower 
Which can not meet its driving blast must die. 
— But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head. 
Daughter of Spain ! — What wouldst thou with thy 
lord? 

Elmina. Look not upon me thus ! — I have no 
power 
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye 
Off from my soul! — What! am I sunk to Ihis? 
I, whose blood sprung from heroes ! — Flow my sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace 
On their majestic line! — My sons ! my sons! 
— Now is all else forgotten ! — I had once 
A babe that in the early spring-time lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last. 
When earth's young flowers were opening to the 

sun, 
Death sunk on his meek eyelid, and I deemed 
All sorrow light to mine ! — But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder-clouds! — Oh! I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer 
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst 

win 
The father to relent, to save his sons ! 

Hernandez. By yielding up the city 1 

Elmina. Rather say 
By meeting that which gathers close upon us 
Perchance one day the sooner ! — Is't not so? 
Must we not yield at last ? — How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease, 
And famine, and the sword? 

Hernandez. How long ? — While he. 
Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul. 
Than in the circling heavens, with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, 
In the good cause, with solemn joy ! — How long 1 
— And who art thou, that, in the littleness 
Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bounds 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stayed, and flow no further? — But the Powej 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assigned 
No limits unto that which man's high strength 
Shall, through its aid, achieve ! 

Elmina. Oh! there are time» 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



■ When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Hernandez. Who dies in vain 
Upon his country's war-fields, and vvithin 
The. shadow of her altars'? — Feel)le heart! 
I tell tnee that tne voice of noble blood, 
Thus poured for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land. 
Whose sons, through centuries of wo, have striven. 
And perished by her temples, sink awhile. 
Borne down in conflict! — But immortal seed 
Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hills ; and generous hope 
Knows that tlie soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest! — Earth receives 
Not one red drop, from faithful hearts, in vain. 
Elmina. Then it must be! — And ye will make 

those Uves, 
Those young bright lives, an offering — to retard 
Our doom one day! 

Hernandez. The mantle of that day 
May wrap the fate of Spain! 

Elmina. What led me herel 
Why did I turn to thee in my despair 1 
Love hath no ties upon tliee; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man! 
Go to thy silent home ! — there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! — What knows thy 

lieart 1 
Hernandez. Woman! how darest thou taunt 

me with my woes 1 
Thy children too shall perish, and I say 
It shall he well ! — Why takest thou thought for 

them '] 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making niglit tliy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting healtti, 
Unprized, to melt away, i' th' bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thy self 1 — Why, what hath earth 
To pay thee back for thisi — Shall they not live, 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
AH love may be forgotten 1 — Years of tliought, 
Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, 
That changed not, though to change be this world's 

lawl 
Shall they not flush thy cheeks with shame, whose 

blood 
Marks, e'en like branding iron 1 — to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness 1 
Doth not all hope end thus 7 — or e'en at best, 
Will they not leave thee 1 — far from thee seek room 
For th' overflowings of their fiery souls. 
On hfe's wide ocean 1-^Give the bounding steed. 
Or the winged bark to youth, that his free course 



May be o'er hills and seas ; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee ! 

Elmina. Not so ! it is not so ! 
Thou dost but torture me ! — My sons are kind, 
And brave, and gentle. 

Hernandez. Others too have worn 
The semblance of ail good. Nay, stay thee yet; 
I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth, 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elmina. It may not be ! 
Whose grief is hke a mother's for her sons "? 

Hernandez. My son lay stretched upon his bat- 
tle-bier, 
And there were hands wrung o'er him, which had 

caught 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elmina. What tale is this 1 

Hernandez. Read you no records in this mien, 
of things 
Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water % — Lofty birth, 
War, peril, power 1 — Afiiiction's hand is strong, 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! — I have not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 
Of those which perish ! — I was once a chief — 
A warrior ! — nor as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father ! 

Elmina. Then my heart can feel! 
Thou wilt have pity I 

Hernandez. Should I pity thee? 
Thy sons will perish gloriously — their blood 

Elmina. Their blood! my children's blood J-~ 
Thou speak'st as 'twere 
Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! — My fair boys ! 
— Man ! hast thou been a father 1 

Hernandez. Let them die ! 
Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimmed, 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetter on our souls ! — Thou think'st it much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 
These whom we love, in our fond passionate blind- 
ness. 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, "vhose otroke alouo 
Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful, 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ■ 
— Ay, fear them, fear the loved ! — Had 1 but wept 
O'er aiy son's grave, as o'er a babe's, where t^an* 



Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, 
And brightening the young verdure, / might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elmina {disdainfully.) But he fell in war! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature 1 

Hernandez. Glory ! — Peace, 
And listen ! — By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I reared him to take joy 
r th' blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon the day-king ! — His quick blood 
Cv'n to his boyish cheek would mantle up. 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds^ 
But this availeth not ! — Yet he was brave. 
I 've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest, and his plume 
Waved like a torch, above the battle-storm. 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had sunk. 
And banners were struck down. — Around my steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and 1 lived 
But in the loity sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seemed to stand between my soul and heaven, 
— Then came the thunder-stroke ! 

Elmina. 'Tis ever thus! 
And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth hnk itself 
Darkly with all deep love 1 — He died 1 

Hernandez. Not so ! 
^Death! Death! — Why, earth should be a para- 
dise, 
To make that name so fearful ! — Had he died. 
With his young fame about him for a shroud, 
I had not learned the might of agony, 
To bring proud natures low ! — No ! he fell off — 
—Why do I tell thee this ?— What right hast tliou 
To learn how passed the glory from my house 1 
Yet listen ! — He forsook me ! — He, that was 
As my own soul, forsook me ! — trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires ! — Ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain, 
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid. 
Abjured his faith, his God !— Now, talk of death ! 

Elmina. Oh ! I can pity thee 

Hernandez. There's more to hear. 
I braced the corslet o'er my heart's deep wound, 
And cast my troubled spirit on the tide 
C'f war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might bear it up from sinking ; 

Elmma. And ye met 
i'Jo more'? 

Hernandez. Be still ! — We did ! — we met once 
more. 
God had his own high purpose to fulfil. 
Or thinkest thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Rad looked upon such things 7 — We met once more. 
— That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark 
y<'ared upon brain and bosom ! — there had been 



Combat o;i Ebro's banks, and when the c'ay 
Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field 
Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round 
A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, ev'n unto death I strove 
Long with a turbaned champion ; but my sword 
Was heavy with God's vengeance — and prevailed 
He fell — my heart exulted — and I stood 
In gloomy triumph o'er him — Nature gave 
No sign of horror, for 'twas Heaven's decree ! 
He strove to speak — but 1 had done the work 
Of wrath too well — yet in his last deep moan 
A dreadful something of familiar sound 
Came o'er my shuddering sense. — The moon look 

ed forth. 
And I beheld — speak not ! — 'twas he — my son ! 
My boy lay dying there ! He raised one glance 
And knew me — for he sought with feeble hand 
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er them soon. — I will not have thy look 
Fixed on me thus! — Away! 

Elmina. Thou hast seen this, 
Thou hast done this — and yet thou livest 1 

Hernandez. I live ! 
And k newest thou wherefore 1 — On my soul there 

fell 
A horror of great darkness, which shut out 
All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister's shad? 
The home of my despair. But a deep voice 
Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tonea 
Far through my bosom's depths. And I awoke, 
Ay, as the mountain cedar doth shake off 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so I shook 
Despondence from my soul, and knew myself 
Sealed by that blood wherewith my hands were 

dyed, 
And set apart, and fearfully marked out 
Unto a mighty task !^To rouse the soul 
Of Spain, as from the dead; and to lift up 
The cross, her sign of victory, on the hills. 
Gathering her sons to battle ! — And my voice 
Must be as freedom's trumpet on the winds, 
From Roucesvalles to the blue sea-waves 
Where Caipe looks on Afric; till the land 
Have filled her cup of vengeance ! — Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in the face of Heaven! 
— But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast 
Ere that day comel 

Elmina. I ask thee this no more. 
For I am hopeless now. — Bat yet one boon — 
Hear me, by all thy woes! — Thy voice hath pow 

er 
Through the wide city — here I can not rest. 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 

Hernandez. And whereforel 

Elmina. Thou, 
That wert a father, and art now — alcae! 




^ans*; thou ask ' wherefore 1' — Ask the wretch 

whose sands 
tlave not an hour to run, whose failing limbs 
Elave but one earthly journey to perform, 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death, 
Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parched lip 
Implores a cup of waterl — Why, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies 
Nature's last prayer? — I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no more! — And I must look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perish ! — But hath Heaven 
Decreed that they must perish 1 — Who shall say 
If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt? 

Hernandez. There! — with the Moor! 
Let him fill up the measure of his guilt! 
-'Tis madness all ! — How wouldst thou pass th' 

array 
Of armed foes 1 

Elmina. Oh ! free doth sorrow pass. 
Free and unquestioned, through a suffering 
world !(2) 

Hernandez. This must not be. Enough of wo 
is laid 
E'en now, upon thy lord's heroic soul. 
For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburthened heart. — Away! 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for 

strength 
Up to Heaven's gate. — Farewell ! 

{^Exit Hernandez. 

Elmina. Are all men thus? 
— Why, wer't not better they should fall e'en now 
Than hve to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn, 
Against the sufferer's pleadings? — But no, no! 
Who can be like this man, that slew his son, 
Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul 
Untamed upon his brow? 
{After a pause.) There's one, whose arms 
Have borne my children in their infancy. 
And on whose knees they sported, and whose hand 
Hath led them oft — a vassal of their sire's; 
And I will seek him : he may lend me aid, 
When all beside pass on. 

DIRGE HEARD WITHOUT. 

Thou to thy rest art gone. 
High lieart! and what are we, 
^Vhile o'er our heads the storm sweeps on, 
That we should mourn for thee? 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To tiie buried son of Spain! 
To those that live, the lance and spear, 
And well if not the chain ! 



Be theirs to weep the dead 
As they sit beneath their vines, 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines! 

Thou hast thrown off the load 
Which we must yet sustain, 
And pour our blood where thine hath flowed. 
Too blest if not in vain I 

We give thee holy rite. 
Slow knell, and chaunted strain! 
—For those that fall to-morrow night, 
May be left no funeral-train. 

Again, when trumpets wake. 
We must brace our armour on ; 
But a deeper note thy sleep must break — 
— Thou to thy rest art gone! 

Happier in this than all. 
That, now thy race is run, 
Upon thy name no stain may fall, 
Thy work hath well been done. 

Elmina. " Thy work hath well been done !"-•■ 
so thou mayst rest I 
— There is a solemn lesson in those words — 
But now I may not pause. 

[E.rit Elmina. 

SCENE A STREET IN THE CITY. 

HERNANDEZ, GONZALEZ. 

Hernandez. Would they not hear? 

Gonzalez. They heard, as one that stands 
By the cold grave which hath been newly closed 
O'er his last friend doth hear some passer-by. 
Bid him be comforted ! — Their hearts have died 
Within them! — We must perish, not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the hills, 
And peal through Heaven's great arch, but si- 
lently. 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark 
Which lit us on our toils ! — Reproach me not; 
My soul is darkened with a heavy cloud — 
— Yet fear not I shall yield ! 

Hernandez. Breathe not the word. 
Save in proud scorn ! — Each bitter day, o'erpassed 
By slow endurance, is a triumph won 
For Spain's red cross. And be of trusting heart ' 
A few brief hours, and those that turned away 
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice, 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be arrayed for battle. We must watch 
For the swift impulse, and await its time, 
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosop 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance. 
When they were weary; They had cast aside 
The'v arms to slumber; or a knell, just then 
Wif^x its deep hollow tone, had made the bloi.v' 



50 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Creep shuddering through their veins ; or they had 

caught 
A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth 
Strange omens from its blaze. 
Gonzalez. Alas! the cause 
Lies deeper in their misery!—! have seen, 
in my night's course through this beleaguered city 
Things, whose remembrance doth not pass away 
As vapours from the mountains. — There were 

some, 
That sat beside their dead, with eyes, wherein 
Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut out all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answered with a fierce and bitter laugh. 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, 
Dropt from the light of spirit. — Others lay — 
— Why should I tell thee, father ! how despair 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Tnto the very dust? — And yet for this, 
Fear not that I embrace my doom — Oh God! 
That 'twere my doom alone! — with less of lixed 
And solemn fortitude. — Lead on, prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life, 
—But what are these'] — Who hath not dearer 

lives 
Twined with his ownl — I shall be lonely soon — 
Childless ! — Heaven wills it so. Let us begone. 
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

\_Exeunt Gonzalez and Hernandez. 

SCENE — A TENT IN THE K.,^rflISH CAMP. 

ABDULLAH, ALPHONSO, CARLOS. 

Abdullah,. These are bold words: but hast thou 
looked on death, 
FairstripUngl — On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left liglit traces. If thy shaft hath pierced 
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climbed some eagle's nest, and thou hast 

made 
His nest thy spoil, 'tis much ! — And fear'st thou 

not 
The leader of the mighty'? 

Alphonso. I have been 
Reared amongst fearless men, and 'midst the rocks 
And the wild hills whereon my fathers fought 
And won their battles. There are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have learned them all. 
How should I fear thee, Moor 7 
Abdullah. So, thou hast seen 
f^ields, where the combat's roar hath died away 
Into the whispering breeztf, and where wild flow- 
ers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves! — But knowest thou 
aaglit 



Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes 

fire, 
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds 
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts 
That ruled the storm so late'? — Speak not of deatk 
Till thou hast looked on such. 

Alphonso. I was not born 
A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant-men, amidst the lowly vales ; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights ! — I am of princely race, 
And, if my father would have heard my suit, 
I tell thee, infidel ! that long ere now, 
I should have seen how lances meet ; and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Abdullah. Boy ! know'st thou there are sights 
A thousand times more fearful? — Men may die 
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring 
To battle-horn and tecbir.* — But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are those, 
'Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, 
Led forth in fetters — dost thou mark me, boy"? 
To take their last look of th' all gladdening sun, 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth, 
Unto the death of shame! — Hadstthou seen this 

Alphonso {to Carlos). Sweet brother, God is with 
us — fear thou not ! 
We have had heroes for our sires — this man 
Should not behold us tremble. 

Abdullah. There are means 
To tame the heftiest natures. Yet again, 
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls, 
Sue to thy sire for life; or wouldst thou die, 
With this, thy brother ? 

Alphonso. Moslem ! on the hills, 
Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain-peasants, as they dressed the vines. 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home, 
•Singing their ancient songs ; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword 
Tizona(3) cleared its way through turbaned hosts, 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moor.(4) — I will not shame 
The blood we draw from him! 

A Moorish Soldier enters. 

Soldier. Valencia's lord 
Sends messengers, my chief. 

Abdullah. Conduct them hither. 

[ The Soldier goes out, and re-enters with EU 
mina, disguised, and an Attendant. 
Carlos (springing forward to the Attendant). 
Oh ! take me hence, Diego ! take me heiice 
With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning, when I wake. Here dark-browed men 
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind. 
And well 1 know, thou lov'st me, my Diego! 



* Tecbir, the war-cry of the IVIoors and Arabs. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



51 



Abdullah. Peace, bt-y! — What tidings, Chris- 
tian, from thy lord? 
Is he grown humbler, doth he set the lives 
Of these fair nurslings at a city's worth? 

Alphonso {rushing forward impatiently). Say 
not, he doth ! — Yet wherefore art thou here? 
[f it be so — I could weep burning tears 
F&r very shame ! — If this can be, return ! 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils, 
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword. 
And that beside him in the mountain-chase, 
And in his halls and at his stately feasts. 
My place shall be no more ! — but no ! — I wrong, 
I wrong my father ! — Moor ! believe it not ! 
He is a champion of the cross and Spain, 
Sprung from the Cid ; — and I too, 1 can die 
As a warrior's high-born child ! 

Elmina. Alas ! alas ! 
And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy? 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast 
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, 
Ere yet the blight be come ? 

Alphonio. That voice doth sound 

Abdullah. Stranger, who art thou? — this is 
mockery ! speak ! 

Elmina {throwing off a mantle and helmet, and 
embracing her sons). My boys! whom I have 
reared through many hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts 
Untold and unimagined ; let me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heart. 
And seen once more the faces, in whose light 
My soul hath lived for years 1 

Carlos. Sweet mother! now 
Thou shalt not leave us more.' 

Abdullah. Enough of this ! 
Woman! what seek'st thou here ! — How hast thou 

dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts? 

Elmina. Think'st thou there dwells no courage 
but in breasts 
That set their mail against the ringing spears, 
When helmets are struck down? — Thou little 

know'st 
Of nature's marvels! — Chief! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior- 
men, 
— Ay, they that master death by field or flood, 
Would look on, ere they braved! — I have no 

thought, 
No sense of fear ! — Thou 'rt mighty ! but a soul 
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power 
Of that one feeling, poured through all its depths, 
Than monarchs with their hosts ! — Am I not come 
To die with these, my children? 

Abdullah. Doth thy faith 
Bid thee do this, fond Christian? — Hast thou not 
The means to save them? 

Elmina. I have prayers, and teara, 



And agonies! — and he — my God — the God 
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour 
To bow the crested head — hath made these thing* 
Most powerful in a world where all must learn 
That one deep language, by the storm called forth 
From the bruised reeds of earth ! — For thee, per- 
chance. 
Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet 
Been laid upon my heart, and thou may'st love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low. 
Humbled before thee. 

[She throws herself at his feet. 
Conqueror! I can kneel! 
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet ! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves, 
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased! 
Do this, but spare my sons ! 

Alphonso {attempting to raise her.) Thou 

shouldst not kneel 
Unto this infidel! — Rise, rise, my mother! 
This sight doth shame our house! 

Abdullah. Thou daring boy! 
They that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty 

mien 
Unto another language. 

Elmina. Peace, my son ! 
Have pity on my heart ! — Oh, pardon. Chief! 
He is of noble blood! — Hear, hear me yet! 
Are there no lives through which the shafts of 

Heaven 
May reach your soul? — He that loves aught on 

earth. 
Dares far too much, if he be merciless ! 
Is it for those, whose frail mortality 
Must one day strive alone with God and death 
To shut their souls against th' appealing voice 
Of nature, in her anguish? — Warrior! Man! 
To you too, ay, and haply with your hosts. 
By thousands and ten thousands marshalled round, 
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not! — Where shall your 

high heart 
Find refuge then, if in the day of might 
Wb hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet, 
And you have pitied not? 

Abdullah. These are vain words. 

Elmina. Have you no children? — Fear you 

not to bring 
The lightning on their heads? — In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents, beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out, 
To greet your homeward step?; — You have not yer 
Forgot so utterly her patient love — 
— For is not woman's, in all climes, the same?- 
That you should scorn my prayer! — Ob Heaven' 

his eye 
Doth wear no mercy ! 



52 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Abdullah. Then it mocks you not. 
1 have swept o'er the mountains of your land, 
tjeaving my traces, as the visitings 
Of storms, upon them!— Shall I now be stayed! 
Know, unto me it were as hght a thing, 
In this, my course, to quench your children's lives, 
As, journeying through a forest, to break off 
The young wild branches that obstruct the way 
With their green sprays and leaves. 

Elmina. Are there such hearts 
Amongst thy works, O God'? 
Abdullah. Kneel not to me. 
Kneel to your lord ! on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightly won 
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words. 
Elmina {rising indignantly.) Speak not of 
noble men ! — he bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alphonio {with exultation.) I knew 'twas thus! 
He could not fail ! 

Elmina. There is no mercy, none, 
On this cold earth! — To strive with such a world, 
Hearts should be void of love! — We will go hence, 
My children! we are summoned. Lay your heads, 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round, 
Will yet have pity, and before his face 
We three will stand together! Moslem! now 
Let tlie stroke fall at once! 

Abdullah. 'Tis thine own will. 
These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elmina. Thou wilt not spare! 
And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew, 
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear 
From their first lisping accents caught the sound 
Of that word — Father — once a name of love — 

Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abdullah. Hath the blast 
Of sudden trumpets ne'er at dead of night. 
When the land's watchers feared no hostile step. 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world. 
In cities, whose heroic lords have been 
Steadfast as thine? 

Elmina. There's meaning in thine eye, 
More than thy words. 

Abdullah {■pointing to the city.) Look to yon 
towers and walls ! 
Think you no hearts within their limits pine, 
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared 
Tc burst the feeble links which bind them still 
Unto endurance 1 

Elmina. Thou hast said too well. 
But what of this 1 

Abdullah. Then there are those, to whom 
The Prophet's armies not as foes would pass 
Von gates, but as deliverers. Might they not 
ill some still hour, when weariness takes rest. 
Be won to welcome us 1 — Your children's steps 



May yet bound lightly through their father's halls! 

Alphonso {indignantly.) Thou treacherous 
Moor! 

Elmina. Let me not thus be tried 
Beyond all strength, oh Heaven ! 

Abdullah. Now, 'tis for thee, 
Thou Christian mother! on thy sons to pass 
The sentence — lite or deuth! — the price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

Alphonso. Mother ! thou tremblest ! 

Abdullah. Hath thy heart resolved] 

Elmina {covering her face with her hands.) 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things 
Which rush in stormy darkness, through my soul, 
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. 

Abdullah. Come forth. We'll commune else- 
where. 

Carlos {to his mother,) Wilt thou go'? 
Oh! let me follow thee! 

Elmina. Mine own fair child ! 
— Now that thine eyes have poured once more on 

mine 
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice 
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul 
And I have felt the twining of thine arms — 
— How shall I leave thee 1 

Abdullah. Leave him, as 'twere but 
For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun's. 

Alphonso. Thou hast no look 
For me, my mother ! 

Elmina Oh ! that I should live 
To say, I dare not look on thee ! — Farewell, 
My first born, fare thee well! 

Alphonso. Yet, yet beware ! 
It were a grief more heavy on thy soul. 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep ! 

Abdullah. Away! we trifle here. The nigH 
wanes fast. 
Come forth! 

Elmina. One more embrace ! My sons, fai«- 
well ! 

[Exeunt Abdullah with Elmina and Tier 
Attendant. 

Alphonso. Hear me yet once, my mother ! 
Art thou gone? 
But one word more! 

[He rushes out, followed by Carlos. 

SCENE — THE GARDEN OF A PALACE IN VALENCIA. 
XIMENA, THERESA. 
Theresa. Stay yet awhile. A purer aii 3oth 
rove 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the 

limes. 
And shaking sweetness from the orange boi'^^hs, 
Than waits you in the city. 
Ximena. There are those 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



53 



lu their last need, and on their hed of death, 
At which no hand doth minister but mine, 
That wait me in the city. Let us hence. 

Theresa. You have been wont to love the 

music made 
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft vs^inds, 
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death? 

Xi-ynena. To me the voice 
Of summer, whispering tnrough young flowers 

and leaves. 
Now speaks too deep a langvfage! and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies, 
The breathing soul is sadness! — I have felt 
That summons through my spirit, after which 
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds 
Seem fraught with secret warnings. — There is 

cause 
That I should bend my fiiotsteps to the scenes 
Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts, 
And pouring winter through the fiery blood. 
And fettering the strong arm ! — For now no sigh 
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, 
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf. 
But of his angel's silent coming bears 
Some token to my soul. — But nought of this 
Unto my mother! — These are awful hours! 
And on tlieir heavy steps, afflictions crowd 
With such dark pressure, there is left no room 
For one grief more. 

Therpsa. Sweet lady, talk not thus ! 
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light, 
There's more of hfe in its clear tremulous ray 
Than I have marked of late. Nay, go not yet ; 
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 
From the transparent waters, dashing round 
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness. 
O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek. 
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing 
The melody you love. 

THERESA SINGS. 

Why is the Spanish maiden's grave 
So far from her own bright land 1 

The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 
Were sown by no kindred hand. 

'Tis not the orange-bough that sends 

Its breath on the sultry air, 
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends 

To the breeze of evening there ! 

But the Rose of Sharon's eastern bloom 

By the silent dwelling fades. 
And none but strangers pass the tomb 

Which the Palm of Judah shades. 

The lowly Cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 
Marks well that place of rest ; 

7* 



But who hath graved, on its mossy stone, 
A sword, a helm, a crest? 

These arc the trophies of a chisf, 

A lord of the axe and spear ' 
— Some blossom plucked, some faded leaf, 

Should grace a maiden's bier ! 

Scorn not her tomb — deny not her 

The honours of the brave ! 
O'er that forsaken sepulchre, 

Banner and plume might wave. 

She bound the steel, in battle tried. 

Her fearless heart above, 
And stood with brave men, side by side, 

In the strength and faith of love ! 

That strength prevailed — that faith was blessea 

True was the javelin thrown, 
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast, 

She met it with her own ! 

And nobly won, where heroes fell 

In arms for the holy shrine, 
A death which saved what she loved so well, 

And a grave in Palestine. 

Then let the Rose of Sharon spread 

Its breast to the glowing air. 
And the Palm of Judah lift its head, 

Green and immortal there ! 

And let yon gray stone, undefaced, 
With its trophy mark the scene, 

Telling the pilgrim of the waste, 
Where Love and death have been. 

JKimena. Those notes were wont to make rny 
heart beat quick. 
As at a voice of victory ; but to-day 
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems 
All mournful. Oh ! that ere my early grave 
Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal 
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth 
Beneath my father's banner ! — In that sound 
Were life to you, sweet brothers !— rBut for me — 
Come on — our tasks await us. They who know 
Their hours are numbered out, have little time 
To give the vague and slumberous languor way, 
Which doth steal o'er them in the breath of flower?*. 
And whisper of soft winds. 

ELMINA entera hurriedly. 
Elmina, This air will calm my spirit, ere yet 1 
meet 
His eye, which must be met.— Thou here, Ximeud 
l^She starts back oti seeing Xi-ncna. 
Ximena. Alas ! mv mother 1 In that burryinu 
step 
And troubled glance I read — 

Elmina (wildli/.) Thou read'st it not ! 



Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 
The things lay glaring, which within our hearts 
We treasure up for God's 1 — Thou read'st it not ! 
1 say, thou canst not ! — There's not one on earth 
Shall know ihe thoughts, which for themselves 

have made 
And kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereor he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When tne graves open ! 

Ximena. Mother ! what is this *? 
Alas ! your eye is wandering, and your cheek 
Flushed, as with fever ! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Elmina. Rest 1 — who should rest ? — not he 
That holds one earthly blessing to his heart 
Nearer than hfe ! — No ! if this world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him who calls 
Such things his own, take rest 1 — Dark spirits keep 

watch. 
And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their 

souls 
Made marks for human scorn !— Will they bear on 
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all 
[ts glorious drapery ? — Who shall tell us tins'? 
—Will he so bear it? 

Ximena. Mother ! let us kneel, 
And blend our hearts in prayer ! — What else is 

left 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on 

themi 
— Leave us, Theresa. — Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [Exit Theresa. 

My mother ! peace 

Is heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with mel 
Elmina. Away ! 'tis but for souls unstained to 
wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths. — The 

stream 
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm. 
Reflects but clouds and lightnings ! — Didst thou 

speak 
Of peace 1 — 'tis fled from earth I — but there is joy ! 
Wild, troubled joy ! — And who shall know, my 

child ! 
it is not happiness 7 — Why, our own hearts 
Will keep the secret close! — Joy, joy ! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain-air! — But hush! the 

trees. 
The flowers, the waters, must hear nought of 

this ! 
riiey arc full of voices, and will whisper things — 
We'll speak of it no more. 
Ximena. Oh', pnying Heaver, ! 
This grief doth shake her reason I 



Elmina {starting). Hark ! a step ! 
'Tis — 'tis thy father's — come away — not now~ 
He must not see us now ! 

Ximena. Why should this be 1 

GONZALEZ enters, and detains ELMINA.. 

Gonzalez. Elmina, dost tiiou shun me 7 — Have 
we not, 
E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
When youth was as a glory round our brows, 
Held on through life together? — And is this, 
'vVheri eve is gathering round us, with the gioom 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps 
Upon the darkening wild ? 

Elmina (coldly). There needs not this. 
Why shouldst thou think I shunned thee 1 

Gonzalez. Should the love 
That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love, 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening 

smiles 
To mingle sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten ? 

Elmina. Speak'st i/iow thus? 
— I have knelt before thee with that very plea. 
When it availed me not? — But there are things 
Whose very breathings on the soul erase 
All record of past love, save the chill sense, 
Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith, 
And vain devoted ness ! — Ay ! they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Gonzalez. This is but 
The wildness and the bitterness of grief, 
Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its long 
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power. 
Which makes aU conflict vain. 

Hark ! was there new 

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena ? 

Ximena. Oh, niy father ! 
I know that horn too well. — 'Tis but the wind, 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savage war-note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Gonzalez. Alas! this wo must be ! 
I do but shake my spirit from its height 
So startling it with hope! — But the dread hour 
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down 
Yet for a little while — and Heaven will ask 
No more — the passionate workings of my heart; 
— And thine — Elmina 1 

Elmina. 'Tis — I am prepared. 
I have prepared for all. 

Gonzalez. Oh, well I knew 
Thou wouldst not fail me ! — Not in vain my sou3. 
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elmina. {wildly) Away! — thou know'st me 
not! 



Man dares too far, his rashness would invest 
This our mortality with an attribute 
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows 
One human heart ! 

Gonzalez. These are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee ! — Hast thou not been found 
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light 
Undimned o'er every trial? — And, as our fates, 
So must our names be, undivided! — Thine, 
I' th' record of a warrior's life, shall find 
Its place of stainless honour. — By his side 

Elmina. May tnis be borne 1 — How much of 
agony 
Hath the heart room for 1 — Speak to me in wrath— 
I can endure it ! — But no gentle words ! 
No words of love ! no praise ! — Thy sword might 

slay, 
And be more merciful! 

Gonzalez. Wherefore art thou thus'? 
Elmina, my beloved ! 

Elmina. No more of love ! 
— Have I not said there's that within my heart, 
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall 
Upon an unclosed wound? 

Gonzalez. Nay, lift thine eyes 
That I may read their meaning ! 

Elmina. Never more 
With a free soul — What have I said? — 'twas 

nought ! 
Take thou no heed ! The words of wretchedness 
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the 

speech 
Of troubled dreams ? 

Gonzalez. I have seen thee in the hour 
Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath 
Of grief hung cliilling round thee; in all change. 
Bright health and drooping sickness ; hope and 

fear, 
Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina, 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back per- 
turbed 
With shame or dread, from mine ! 

Elmina. Thy glance doth search 
A wounded heart too deeply. 

Gonzalez. Hast thou there 
Aught to conceal ? 

Elmina. Who hath Kot? 

Gonzalez. Till this hour 
Thoxi never hadst ! — Yet hear me I — by the free 
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust 
Of thine heroic fathers • 

Elmina. This to me ! 
— Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds 
Of festal music round a dying man ! 
Will his heart echo them? — But if thy words 
Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone. 
The grave's most awful spirits, they would stand 
Powerless, before my anguish ! 

Gonzalez. Then, bv her, 



Who there looks on thee in the purity 

Of her devoted youth, and o'er whose name 

No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must 

ne'er 
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From the quick feeling of dishonour. — Speak 
Unfold this mystery ! — By thy sons 

Elmina. My sons! 
And canst thou name them? 

Gonzalez. Proudly! — Better far 
They died with all the promise of their youth. 
And the fair honour of their house upon them, 
Tiian that with manhood's high and passionate 

soul 
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, 
Barred from the lists of crested chivalry, 
And pining, in the silence of a wo, 
Which from the heart shuts daylight ; — o'er the 

shame 
Of those who gave them birth! — But thou couldst 

ne'er 
Forget their lofty claims ! 

Elmina {wildly.') 'Twas but for them! 
'Twas for them only! — Y/ho shall dare arraign 
Madness of crime? — And he who made us, knows 
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, 
Which bear down reason ! 

Gonzalez. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust, as o'er our nature threw 
A glory, scarce allowed ; — what hast thou done? 
Ximena, go thou hence! 

Elmina. No, no! my child! - 
There's pity in thy look ! — All other eyes 
Are full of wrath and scorn ! — Oh! leave me not! 

Gonzalez. That I should live to see thee thus 
abased ! 
— Yet speak ? — What hast thou done ? 

Elmina. Look to the gate ! 
Thou'rt worn with toil — but take no rest to-nightj 
The western gate! — Its watchers have been won — 
The Christian city hath been bought and sold! 
They will admit the Moor! 

Gonzalez. They have been won ! 
Brave men and tried so long! — Whose work wae 
this? 

Elmina. Think'st thou all hearts like thine? - 
Can mothers stand 
To see their children perish? 

Gonzalez. Then the guilt 
Was thine? - 

Elmina. — Shall mortal dare to call it guilt 1 
I tell thee, Heaven, which made all holy things, 
Made nought more holy than the boundless love 
Which fills a mother's heart! — I say, 'tis wo 
Enough, with such an aching tenderness, 
To love aught earthly! — and in vain! in vanj* 
— We are pressed down too sorely ! 

Gonzalez {in a low desponding voice). JNo'* 
mv life 



36 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Is struck lo worthless ashes! — In my soul 

Suspicion hatli ta'en root. The nobleness 

Hencefortli is blotted from all human brows, 

And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 

Almost like prophecy, is poured upon me, 

To read the guilty secrets m each eye, 

That once looked bright with truth I 

— Why then I have gained 

What men call wisdom ! — A new sense, to which 

All tales that speak of high fidelity. 

And holy courage, and proud honour, tried. 

Searched, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom, 

Are food for mockery ! — Why should 1 not cast 

From my thinned locks the wearing helm at once. 

And in the heavy sickness of my soul 

Throw the sword down for ever? — Is there aught 

In all this world of gilded hoUowness, 

Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, 

Worth striving for again 1 

Ximena. Father ! look up ! 
Turn unto me, thy child ! 

Gonzalez. Thy face is fair ; 
And hath been unto me, in other days. 
As morning to the journeyer of the deep ; 
But now — 'tis too like hers! 

Elmina {^falling at his feet.) Wo, shame and 
wo. 
Are on me in their might! — forgive, forgive! 

Gonzalez (starting up.) Doth the Moor deem 
that / have part or share, 
Or counsel in this vileness"? — Stay me not! 
Let go thy hold — 'tis powerless on me now — 
I linger here, while treason is at work ! 

[E.Tit Gonzalez. 

Elmina. Ximena, dost thou scorn me 1 

Ximena. I have found 
In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But His whom nought can blind; -to dare do 
aught 
i But pity thee, dear mother! ., 

Elmina. Blessings light 
On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this! 
Thou kind and merciful! — My soul is faint — 
Worn with long strife ! — Is there aught else to do, 
Or suffer, ere we die 1 — Oh God ! my sons ! 

-I have betrayed them ! — All their innocent blood 
Js on my soul! 

Ximena. How shall I comfort thee? 

Oh ! hark! what sounds come deepening on the 
wind, 
fio full of solemn hope ! 

( A proces':ion of Nuns passes across the Scene, 
hearing relics, and chanting.) 

CHANT. 

A sword is on the land ! 
*±Q tnab I'ears aown young tree and glorious 
fli!wer 



Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in powe? 

— Where is the warriors handl 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave. 
Hear us, we perish! Father, hear, and save ! 

If, in the days of song, 
The days of gladness, we have called on theCj 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now, that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish !" — Father ! hear, au'l 

save ! 

The days of song are fled! 
The winds came loaded, wafting dirge-notes by, 
But they that linger soon unraourned must die; 

— The dead weep not the dead ! 
— Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave? 
We sink, we perish ! — Father, hear, and save ! 

Helmet and lance are dust ! 
Is not the strong man withered from our eye? 
The arm struck down that held our banners high ? 

— Thine is our spirit's trust ! 
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave ! 
Do we not perish ! — Father, hear, and save ! 

HERNANDEZ enters. 
Elmina. Why comest thou, man of vengeance? 
— What have I 
To do with thee ? — Am I not bowed enough ? 
Thou art no mourner's comforter ! 

Hernandez. Thy lord 
Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart! 
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy woes 
Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

Elmina. Till this day's task 
Be closed! — there is strange triumph in thine 

eyes — • 
Is it that I have fallen from that high place 
Whereon I stood in fame? — But I can feel 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance! — My spirit now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. — Thou mayst re- 
proach — 
Hernandez. I come not to reproach thee. Hea> 
ven doth work 
By many agencies ; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may 

serve 
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 
As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires, 
Pent in earth's caves! — Thou hast but speeded 

that. 
Which, in th' infatuate bhndness of thy heart 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties, 
But to avert one day! 



THE SIEGE OF VALElSiCIA. 



S) 



Eimina. My senses fail — 
rhou snidst-^Speak yet again ! — I could not catch 
The meaning of thy words. 

Hernandez. E'en now thy lord 
Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor, 
And awful strength is with him. Through the 

blood 
Which this day must be poured in sacrifice 
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills 
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire, 
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense 
Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en with thy children's tale ! 

Ximena. Peace, father ! peace ! 
Behold she sinks! — the storm hath done its work 
Upon the broken reed. Oh ! lend thine aid 
To bear her hence. [ They lead her away. 

Scene — A Street in Valencia. Several Groups 
of Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying 
on the Steps of a Church. ArTiis scattered on 
the Ground around them. 

An Old Citizen. The air is sultry, as with 
thundei^clouds, 
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More freely in heaven's face, but my heart feels 
With this hot glooiji o'erburthened. I have now 
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends, 
Will bring the old man water from the fount, 
To moisten his parched lipl 

[A citizen goes out. 

Second Citizen. This wasting siege, 
Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you ! 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house, 
Once peopled with fair sons ' 

Third Citizen. Why, better thus, 
Than to be haunted with their famished cries. 
E'en in your very dreams ! 

Old Citizen. Heaven's will be done! 
These are dark times ! I have not been alone 
In my afHiction. 

Third Citizen (with bitterness.^ Why, we 
have but this thought 
Left for our gloomy comfort! — And 'tis well! 
Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even 
Between the noble's palace and the hut. 
Where the worn peasant sickens ! — They that bear 
The humble dead unhonoured to their homes, 
Pass now i' th' streets no lordly bridal train, 
With its exulting music; and the wretch 
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 
Flings himself down to die, in his last need 
And agony of famine, doth behold 
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes. 
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just ! 
These are the days when pomp is made to feel 
Its human mould ! 



Fourth Citizen. Heard you last night the s >!aDd 
Of Saint Jago's belli— How sullenly 
From the great tower it pealed ! 

Fifth Citizen. Ay, and 'tis said 
No mortal hand was near when so it seemed 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Citizen. Too well I know 
The sound of coming fate ! — 'Tis ever thus 
When Death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house. (5) — Oh ! there are things 
In this strange world of which we have all to learn 
When its dark bounds are passed. — Yon bell, un- 
touched, 
(Save by hands we see not) still doth speak — 
— When of that line some stately head is marked— 
With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night, 
Rocking Valencia's towers. I have heard it oft, 
Nor known its warning false. 

Fourth Citizen. And will our chief 
Buy the price of his fair children's blood 
A few more days of pining wretchedness 
For this forsaken city 1 

Old Citizen. Doubt it not ! 
— But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for the land ! — And yet 'tis sad 
To think that such a race, with all its fame, 
Should pass away ! — For she, his daughter too, 
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time 
To sojourn there is short. , 

Fifth Citizen. Then wo for us 
When she is gone ! — Her voice — the very sound 
Of her soft step was comfort, as she moved 
Through the still house of mourning 1 — Who like 

her 
Shall give us hope again 1 

Old Citizen. Be still ! — she comes. 
And with a mien how changed ! — A hurrying step, 
And a flushed cheek ! — What may this bode 1— 
Be still ! 

XIMENA enters, with Attendants carrying a Banner. 

Ximena. Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this, 
What do ye here 1 

A Citizen. We die ! 

Ximena. Brave men die now 
Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
By the dark night o'ertaken on their way ! 
These days require such death ! — It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times, 
To fold the mantle- round us, and to sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently. 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them ! — Heai ye 
not? 

A Citizen, Lady ! wnai wouldst thou with U3 1 

Ximena. Rise and arm ! 
E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish ! — Shall this be. 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hu&h&d, 
r th' land to which for ages it hath been 



58 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



A battle-word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd-music 1— Must this work be done, 
And ye he pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse wliich God hath made for noble thought 
Can so be tlirilled no longer 1 

Citizen. 'Tis even so! 
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us, 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Ximena. Are ye so poor 
Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye can draw 
Strength from no deeper source than that which 

sends 
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins. 
And gives the fleet step wings 1 — Why, how have 

age 
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured, 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud 

cause, 
Blessing that agony 1 — Think ye the Power 
Wliich bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth, 
This dull mortality 1— Nay, then look on me ! 
De ath's touch hath marked me, and I stand amongst 

you. 
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 
Shall soon be left to fill !— I say, the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall 

scarce 
Pass from your path before me ! But even now, 
I have that within me, kindling through the dust. 
Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice. 
And token to the nations ! — Look on me ! 
Why hath Heaven poured forth courage, as a flame 
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be stilled 
Yet sooner for its s\V\ii consuming brightness. 
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair. 
And your soul's torpor 1 — ^Yet, arise and arm ! 
It may not be too late. 

A Citizen. Why, what are we, 
To cope with hosts 1 — Thus faint, and worn, and 

few, 
O'ernunibered and forsaken, is't for us 
To stand against the mighty? 

Ximena. And for whom 
Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath 
From their high places, made the fearfulness, 
And ever-wakeful presence of his power, 
'I'o the pale startled earth most manifest, 
But for the weak? — Was 't for the helmed and 

crowned 
That suns were stayed at noonday 1 — Stormy seas 
As a nil parted ? — Mailed archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death ? 
-1 tell j'ou, if these marvels have been done, 
'Twas for the wearied and th' oppressed of men, 
rhev needed such ! — And generous faith hath 

power 
B' hei prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 



Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 
Of the great elder time ! — Be of good heart ! 
Who is forsaken? — He that gives the thought 
A place within his breast! — 'Tis not for you. 
— Know ye this banner ? 

Citizens (murmuring to each other.^ Is she 
not inspired 1 
Doth not heaven call us by her fervent voice ? 

Ximena. Know ye this banner? 

Citizens. 'Tis the Cid's. 

Ximena. The Cid's ! 
Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to ? — Why the very wind 
As it swells out the noble standard's fold 
Hath a triumphant sound ! — The Cid's ' — it 

moved 
Even as a sign of victory through the ^and 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 

Old Citizen. Can ye still pause, my brethren^ 
—Oh! that youth 
Through this worn frame were kindling once 
again! 

Ximena. Ye linger still 1 — Upon this very air, 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain(6) 
Poured forth his conquering spirit! — 'Twas the 

breeze 
From your own mountains which came down to 

wave 
This banner of his battles, as it drooped 
Above the champion's death-bed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed. — They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,(7_) 
But the deep tambour and the shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty passed ! — They wrapt him 

not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's 

form 
In war-array, and on his barbed steed, 
As for a triumph, reared him ; marching forth 
In the hushed midniglit from Valencia's walls, 
Beleaguered then, as now. All silently 
The stately funeral moved : — but who was he 
That followed, charging on the tall white horse. 
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale, 
Waving in sheets of snow-light ? — And the cross^ 
The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield, 
And the fierce meteor-sword? — They fled, they 

fled! 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 
Were dust in his red path ! — The scimetar 
Was shivered as a reed ! — for in that hour 
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spam, 
Was armed betimes ! — And o'er that fiery field 
The Cid's high banner streamed all joyously, 
For still its lord was there ! 

Citizens (p-ising tumultuously): Even uiito 
death 
Again it shall be followed ! 
1 Ximena. Will he see 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



59 



The rtoble stem hewn down, the beacon-light 
Which his house for ages o'er the land 
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench- 
ed at once 1 
Will he not aid his children in the hour 
Of this their uttermost peril 7 — Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they can not burst ! 
— Is it a thing forgotten, how he woke 
From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain 
In her great danger? — At the night's mid-watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets. 
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men, 
By thousands marching through! — For he had 

risen ! 
The Campeador was on his march again, 
And in his arms, and followed by his hosts 
Oi snadowy spearmen ! — He had left the world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth, 
, And called his buried warriors from their sleep, 
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain ; 
For Afric was upon her ! — Morning broke — 
Day rushed through clouds of battle ; — but at eve 
Our God had triumphed, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victory from the field, 
That rocked her ancient mountains. 

The Citizens. Arm! to arms! 
On to our chief! — We have strength within us yet 
To die with our blood roused ! — Now, be the v/ord. 
For the Cid's house ! 

[ They begin to arm themselves. 
Xim.ena. Ye know his battle-song 7 
The old rude strain wherewith his bands went 

forth 
To strike down Paynim swords ! 

((S/ie sings) 

THE cid's battle SONG. 

The Moor is on his way I 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath marshalled his dark array ! 

Shout through the vine-clad land! 
That her sons on all their hills may hear, 
And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear, 

And the sword for the brave man's hand ! 
(The Citizens join in the song, while they 
continue arming themselves'). 

Banners are in the field! 
The chief must rise from his joyous board, 
And turn from the feast ere the wine be poured, 

And take up his father's shield I 

The Moor is on his way ! 
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground, 
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods 
round 1 
There is nobler work to-dav! 



Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down, 
And the marriage-robe and the flowery crown, 

And arm in the banquet-hall ! 

And stay the funeral-train I 
Bid the chanted mass be hushed awhile, 
And their bier laid down in the holy aisle, 

And the mourners girt for Spain ! 

{They take up the banner, andfollov; Xiircna 
out. Their voices are heard gradually 
dying away at a distance). 

Ere night, must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced, and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array! 
His steed is barbed, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the sunny sky. 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day! 

SCENE — THE WALLS OP THE CITY. THE PLAIN 
BENEATH, WITH THE MOORISH CAMP AND ARMY. 

GONZALEZ, GARCIAS, HERNANDEZ. 

{A wild Sound of Moorish Music heard from 
below). 

Hernandez. What notes are these in their deep 
mournfulness 
So strangely wild? 

Garcias. 'Tis the shrill melody 
Of the Moor's ancient death-song. Well I know 
The rude barbaric sound; but, till this hour, 
It seemed not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill 
Comes o'er me with its tones. — Lo ! from yon tent 
They lead the noble boys! 

Hernandez. The young, and pure, 
And beautiful victims ! — 'Tis on things like thesa 
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry. 
Sowing the winds with hope ! — Yet this is well. 
Thus brightly crowned with life's most gorgeous 

flowers. 
And all unblemished, earth should offer up 
Her treasures unto Heaven I 

Garcias {to Gonzalez). My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your children forth. 

Gonzalez {starting). Are my sons there 1 
I knew they could not perish; for yon Heaven 
Would ne'er behold it I — Where is he that said 
I was no more a father 1 — They look changed 
Pallid and worn, as from a prison-house ! 
Oris't mine eye sees dimly? — But their steps 
Seem heavy, as with pain. — I hear theclanJc- 
Oh God! their limbs are fettered.' 

Abdullah {coming forward beneath the wu. Is 
Christian! look 
Once more upon thy cliildren. There is yel 



GO 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



One moment tor the trembling of the sword; 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gonzalez. Why should this man 
So mock us with the semblance of our kindl 
-■ Moor! Moor! thou dost too daringly provoke, 
In thy bold cruelty, th' all-judging One, 
Who visits for such things '.—Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature 1— 'Twill be taught thee yet, 
And darkly shall the anguish of my soul. 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine. 
When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dust, 
And be denied ! 

Abdullah. N-'sy, is it not thyself. 
That hast no iiiercy and no love within thee 1 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house ; 
Speak! must they live or die 7 

Gonzalez (in violent emotion). Is it Heaven's 
will 
To try the dust it kindles for a day, 
With infinite agony !— How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head !— They bloomed 

around me. 
And my heart grew too fearless in its joy. 
Glorying in their bright promise ! — If we fall. 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness? 

{Hernandez, without sjxaking, holds up a Cross 
* before him). 

Abdullah. Speak! 

Gonzalez (snatching the Cross, and lifting it 
up). Let the earth be shaken through its 
depths, 
But this must triumph ! 

Abdullah (coldly). Be it as thou wilt. 
— Unsheath the scimetar ! [ To his Guards. 

Garcias{to Gonzalez:) Away, my chief I 
This is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle proof as yours, 
Unmaddened may sustain. 

Gonzalez. Be still ! I have now 
No place on earth but this ! 

Alphonso {from beneath.) Men ! give me way, 
That I may speak forth once before I die! 

Gj-rcias^ The princely boy !— How gallantly his 
brow 
Wears its high nature in the face of death! 
Alphonso. Father! 

Gon zalcz. My son ! my son !— mine eldest-born ! 
Alphonso. Stay but upon the ramparts!— Fear 
thou not — 
There is good courage in me; oh ! my father! 
I ,vill not shame thee! — only let me fall 
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child, 
Ho shall my heart have strength. 

Gonzalez. Would, would to God, 
(but 1 might die for thee, my noble boy! 
Alphonso my fair son! 

Alphonso. Could I have lived, 
I might have been a warrior ! — Now, Farewell ! 
liut took upon me still!— I will not blench 



When the keen sabre flashes — Mark mt >^elU 
Mine eyelids shall not quiver as it falls, 
So thou wilt look upon me! 

Garcias (to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord! 
We must begone ! — Thou canst not bear it ! 

Gonzalez. Peace! 
— Who hath told thee how much man's h-SiSt cai 

bear ? 
— Lend me thine arm — my brain whirls foaifally- 
How thick the shades close round ! — my boyl my 

boy! 
Where art thou in this gloom? 

Garcias. Let us go hence ! 
This is a dreadful moment ! 

Gonzalez. Hush! — what saidst thou! 
Now let me look on him! — Dost thou see augb* 
Through the dull mist which wraps usl 

Garcias. I behold — 
Oh! for a thousand Spaniards to rush down — 
Gonzalez. Thou seest — My heart stands si *• 
to hear thee speak ! 
— There seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 't were the dead of night ! 

Garcias. The hosts have closed 
Around the spot in stillness. Through the spears 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not; 
— But now — 

Gonzalez. He bade me keep mine eye upon him, 
And all is darkness round me! — Now? 

Garcias. A sword, 
A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst, 
Through the dark serried mass! — Its cold blue 

glare 
Is wavering to and fro — 'tis vanished — hark! 
Gonzalez. I heard it, yes! — I heard the dull 
dead sound 
That heavily broke the silence! — Didst thou 

speak ? 
— I lost thy words — come nearer! 

Garcias. 'Twas — 'tis past! — 
The sword fell then! 

Hernandez {with exultation.) Flow forth thou 
noble blood ! 
Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Unchecked and brightly forth! — Thou kingly 

stream ! 
Blood of our heroes! blood of martyrdom! 
Which through so many warrior-hearts hast 

poured 
The fiery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine own free offering ! — Bathe the land, 
But there thou shalt not sink! — Our very air 
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous. 
With battle-hues of thee! — And thy deep voice 
Rising above them to the judgment-seat 
Shall call a burst of gathered vengeance down 
To sweep th' oppressor from us ! — For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



61 



Gonzalez {endeavouring to rouse himself.') 'Tis 
all a dr>-am ! 
There is not one — no hand on earth could harm 
That fair boy's graceful head! — Why look you 
thus 7 
Abdullah {pointing to Carlos.) Christian ! e'en 

yet thou hast a son ! 
Gonzalez, E'en yet ! 

Carlos. My father! take me from these fearful 
men ! 
Wilt thou not save me, father 1 

Gonzalez {attempting to unsheath his sword.) 
Is the strength 
From mine arm shivered? — Garcias, follow me! 
Garcias. Whither, my chief? 
Gonzalez. Why, we can die as well 
On yonder plain, — ay, a spear's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require, 
Sooner than e'er this anguish ! Life is best 
Thrown from us in such moments. 

[ Voices heard at a distance. 
Hernandez. Hush ! what strain 
Floats on the wind 1 

Garcias. 'Tis the Cid's battle song! 
What marvel hath been wrouglit 1 

[ Voices approaching heard in chorus. 
The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 
He hath marshalled his dark array ! 

XIMENA enters, followed by Citizens, with the Banner. 

Ximena. Is it too latel — My father, these are 
men 
Through life and death prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner! — Is their zeal too late? 
— Oh! there's a fearful history on thy brow! 
What hast thou seen % 

Garcias. It is not all too late. 

Ximena. My brothers ! 

Hernandez. All is well. 

{To Garcias.) Hush! wouldst thou chill 
I'hat which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From th' altar-embers mounts in sudden bright- 
ness? 
I say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain ! 
On to the rescue ! 

Ximena. Bless me, oh my father ! 
4.nd I will hence, to aid thee with ray prayers, 
Sending my spirit with tliee through the storm, 
Lit up by flashing sv/ords ! 

Gonzalez {falling on her neck.) Hath aught 
been spared ? 
Am I not all bereft 1— Thou'rt left me still ! 
Mine ovs^n, my loveliest one, thou'rt left me still ! 
Farewell ! — thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 
Be with thee, my Ximena ! 

Ximena. Fare thee well ! 
J, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field, 
S 



The voice is hushed that still hath welcomed iimc, 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

Hernandez. Peace ! no more ! 
This is no time to melt our nature down 
To a soft stream of tears ! — Be of strong heart ! 
Give me the banner! Swell the song again ! 

THE CITIZENS. 

Ere night must swords be red! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears ! 
But for helmets braced and serried spears! 

— To-morrow for the dead! [Exeunt omnea, 

SCENE — BEFORE THE ALTAR OP A CHURCH 
ELMINA rises from the steps of the Altar. 

Elmina. The clouds are fearful that o'erhang 

thy ways. 
Oh, thou mysterious Heaven ! — It can not be 
That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath, 
To burst upon me through the lifting up 
Of a proud heart, elate in happiness! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's flowers 
But wreathed a cup of trembhng; and the love, 
The boundless love my spirit was formed to bear, 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hues too deep for joy! — I never looked 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth, 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seemed glowing with their quiet blessedness, 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering sense 
Of earth, and its pale changes ; even like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dream*, 
A restless and disturbing consciousness 
That the bright things must fade! — How have I 

shrunk 
From the dull murmur of th' unquiet voice, 
With its low tokens of mortality, 
Till my heart fainted 'midst their smiles! — thcii 

smiles ! 
— Where are those glad looks now? — Could they 

go down. 
With all their joyous light, that seemed not earth's, 
To the cold grave ? — My children I — Righteous 

Heaven ! 
There floats a dark remembraiice o'er my brain 
Of one who told me, with relentless eye, 
That this should be the hour ! 

XHMENA enters. 
Ximena. They are gone forth 
Unto the rescue I — strong in heart and nope. 
Faithful, though few ! — My mother, let thy prayera 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field for SpaiH, 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thy sons ! — For me, my part is rlone' 
The flame which dimly might have lingered vf! 
A little while, hath gathered all its rays 
Brightly to sink at once ; and it is w Jl i 



'I'he shadows are around me ; to thy heart 
Fold me, that I may die. 

Elmina. My child !- What dream 
Is on thy soul? — Even now thine aspect wears 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 
Xijnena. Death's! 
Elmina. Away! 
Thine eye hath starry clearness, and thy cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue 
Than tinged its earliest flower 1 

Ximena. It well may be ! 
There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their colouring from the 

founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope. 

Elmina. Nay, speak not thus! 
There 's that about thee shining which would send 
E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Wer 't not for these sad words. The dim cold air 
And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and 

shrines 
As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien I— Oh no ! this is not death ! 
Ximena. Why should not He, whose touch dis- 
solves our chain, 
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer 1 — He hath many forms. 
They should not all be fearful !— If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst, 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer-winds, a voice of melody. 
Solemn, yet lovely 7— Mother ! I depart I 
— Be it thy comfort, in the after-days, 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 

Elmina. Distract me not 
With such wild fears ! Can I bear on with life 
When thoa art gone?— Thy voice, thy step, thy 

smile. 
Passed from my path !— Alas ' even now thine 

eye 
Is changed- -thy cheek is fading ! 

Ximena. Ay, the clouds 
Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight. 
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 
Comes in that quiet darkness !— It may sooth 
Thy woes, my mother! if I tell thee now, 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My heart so ill hath rested, 
i Elmina. Thine! 
Ximena. Rejoice 
For her, that, when the garland of her life 
Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried, 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time, 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart, 
r •> wither, sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 



W hich lent one moment of existence light, 
That dimmed the rest for ever ! 

Elmina. How is this? 
My child, what mean'st thou? 

Ximena. Mother ! 1 have loved. 
And been beloved ! — the sunbeam of an hour, 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye, 
As they lay shining in their secret founts. 
Went out, and left them colourless. — 'Tis past— 
And what remains on earth ? — the 3'ainbow misl. 
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight 
Is cleared to look on all things as they are ! 
— But this is far too mournful I — Life's dark gift 
Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! 
— Therefore I would go hence ! 
Elmina. And thou hast loved 

Unknown 

Ximena. Oh ! pardon, pardon that I veiled 
My thoughts from thee ! — But thou hadst woee 

enough. 
And mine came o'er me when thy soul had need 
Of more than mortal strength I — For I had scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place within my secret heart. 
When earth's brief joy went from me 1 

'Twas at morn 
I saw the warriors to their field go forth. 
And he — my chosen — was there amongst the rest, 
With his young, glorious brow ! — I looked again — 
The strife grew dark beneath me — but iiis plume 
Waved free above the lances. — Yet again — 
— It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling 

o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted. 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze ! 
— And then — at last — I hurried t' the gate, 
And met him there! — I met him ! — on his shield, 
And with his cloven helm, and shivered sword, 
And dark hair steeped in blood! — They bore him 

past — 
Mother ! — I saw his face ! — Oh ! such a death 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth. 
The pride of woman's eye ! 

Elmina. Sweet daughter, peace ! 
Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy frame — 
Ximena. — T here uiZZ be peace ere long. I shut 
my heart. 
Even as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief. 
That I might spare it thee ! — But now the hour 
Is come when that which would have pierced thg 

soul 
Shall be its healing balm. Oh ! weep thou not, 
Save with a gentle sorrow ! 

Elmina. Must it be? 
Art thou indeed to leave me ? 

Ximena {exultingly). Be thou glad ! 
I say, rejoice above thy favoured child ! 
Joy, for the soldier when his field is foujrht, 
Joy, for the peasant when his vintage ta^^k 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



63 



Is closed at eve \~ -But most of all for her, 
Who, when her life changed its glittering robes 
For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journeyers on, 
Cast down its weight — and slept ! 

Elmina. Alas ! thine eye 
Is wandering — yet how brightly ! — Is this death, 
Or some high wondrous vision? — Speak, my child! 
How is it with thee now? 

Xlmena (wildly^. I see it still ! 
'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high. 
My father's banner ! — Hear'st thou not a sound 1 
The trumpet of Castile! — Praise, praise to Heaven ! 
— Now may the weary rest ! — Be still ! — Who calls 
The night so fearful 1 [She dies. 

Elmina. No ! she is not dead ! 
— Ximena ! — speak to me ! — Oh ! yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound. 
Ere the deep silence fall! — What! is all hushed? 
— No, no !--it can not be ! — How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven 
Left not such beings with us? — But is this 
Her wonted look ? — too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty! — Speak, Ximena! 
Speak ! — my heart dies within me ! — She is gone, 
With all her blessed smiles ! — My child I my child ! 
Where art thou ? — Where is that which answered 

me, 
From thy soft-shining eyes ! — Hush ! doth she 

move ? 
— One light lock seemed to tremble on her brow, 
As a pulse throbbed beneath ; — 'twas but the voice 
Of my despair that stirred it ! — She is gone ! 

\_She throws herself on the body. Gonzalez 
enters, alone, and wounded. 

Elmina (rising as he approaches). I must not 
now be scorned ! — No, not a look, 
A whisper of reproach ! — Behold my wo ! 
— Thou canst not scorn me now ! 

Gonzalez. Hast thou heard aZZ? 

Elmina. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her 
head. 
And passed away to rest. — Behold her there, 
Even such as death hath made her !(8) 

Gonzalez (bending over Ximena^ s body). Thou 
art gone i 

A little while before me, oh, my child ! 
Why should the traveller weep to part with those 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised land 
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away, 
And spread his couch beside them ? 

Elmina. Must it be 
Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair 
Had its bright place amongst us ? — Is this all? 
Left for the years to come? — We will not stay! 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Gonzalez (still gazing upon Ximena). And 
thou 'rt laid 



To slumber in the shadow, blessed child ! 

Of a yet stainless altar, and beside 

A sainted warrior's tomb ! — Oh, fitting place 

For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul 

Back unto him that gave it ! — And thy cheek 

Yet smiles in its bright paleness ! 

Elmina. Hadst thou seen 
The look with which she passed 

Gonzalez (still bending over her). Why, 'tis 
almost 
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose ! 
The faded image of that perfect calm 
Floats, e'en as long-forgotten music, back 
Into my weary heart ! — No dark wild spot 
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands 
That quenched young life by violence! — We have 

seen 
Too much of horror in one crowded hour, 
To weep for aught, so gently gathered hence! 
— Oh ! man leaves other traces I 

Elmina (suddenly starting). It returns 
On my bewildered soul! — Went ye not forth 
Unto the rescue? — And thou'rt here alone! 
— Where are my sons? 

Gonzalez (solemnly). We were too late! 

Elmina. Too late! 
Hast thou nought else to tell me? 

Gonzalez. I brought back 
From that last field the banner of my sires, 
And my own death-wound. 

Elmina. Thine! 

Gonzalez. Another hour 
Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence, 
And with me 

Elmina. No ! — Man could not lifl his hands— 
— Where hast thou left thy sons ? 

Gonzalez. I have no sons. 

Elmina. What hast thou said ? 

Gonzalez. That now their hves not one 
To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 

Elmina (throwing herself on the ground, and 
speaking in a low hurried voice). In one 
brief hour, all gone I — and such a death ! 
— I see their blood gush forth! — their graceful 

heads — 
— Take the dark vision from me, oh, my God ! 
And such a death for them! — I was not there ! 
They were but mine in beauty and in joy, 
Not in that mortal anguish ! — All, all gone ! 
— Why should I struggle more? — What is this 

Power, 
Against whose might, on all sides pressing us. 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays 
Our own frail soirits prostrate? 

After a long pause). 
Now I know 

Thy hand, my God ! — and th«y are soonest crusft 
od 



Itz 



64 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



That most withstand it ! — I resist no more. 

( She rises). 
A light, a light springs up from grief and death, 
Wliich with its solemn radiance doth reveal 
Why we have thus been tried! 

Gonzalez. Then I may still 
Fix my last look on thee, in holy love, 
Parting, but yet with hope ! 

JSlmina. {falling at his feet). Canst thou for- 
give? 
— Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart, 
That should have buried it within mine own, 
And borne the pang in silence ! — I have cast 
Thy life's fair honour, in my wild despair, 
As an unvalued gem upon the waves. 
Whence thou hast snatched it back, to bear from 

earthj 
All stainless, on thy breast. — Well hast thou 

done — 
But I — canst thou forgive? 

Gonzalez. Within this hour 
I have stood upon that verge whence mortals fall, 
And learned how 'tis with one whose sight grows 

dim. 
And whose foot trembles on tlie gulf's dark side, 
— Death purifies all feeling — We will part 
In pity and in love. 

Elmina. Death! — And thou too 
Art on thy way I — Oh, joy for thee, high heart ! 
Glory and joy for thee !— The day is closed, 
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long battle-toils, though many swords 
Have entered thine own soul ! — But on my head 
Recoil the fierce invokings of despair. 
And I am left far distanced in the race, 
The lonely one of earth ! — Ay, this is just. 
( am not worthy that upon my breast 
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield 
Thy spirit unto God ! 

Gonzalez. Thou art I thou art ! 
Oh ! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness. 
Even in the presence of eternal things. 
Wearing their chastened beauty all undimmed, 
Assert their lofty claims ; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel ! — We are here, 
'-Jefore that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth, and meet it is 
For such a witness, in the sight of Heaven, 
And in the face ot death, whose shadowy arm 
Comes dim between us, to record th' exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness. — Who are they, 
That in one path have journeyed, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close? 

{A Citizen enters hastily). 

iJltize7u The Moors! the Moors! 

Gonzalez. How! is the city stormed? 
*jn ! righteous Heaven !^br this I looked not yet ! 
llatn all been done in vain '' — Why then, 'tis time 
For prayer, and then to retJ. 



Citizen. The sun shall set, 
And not a Christian voice be left for prayer 
To-night within Valencia ! — Round our walls 
The paynim host is gathering for th' assault, 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gonzalez. Then my place 
Is here no longer, — I had hoped to die 
Even by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires — but tiiis was not to be ! 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour. 
And it hath still high duties. — Now, my wife! 
Thou mother of my children — of the de;»-i — 
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope — 
Farewell ! 

Elmina. No, not farewell! — My soul hassi 
risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side 
Amidst the hurtling lances I will stand. 
As one on whom a brave man's love hath been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Gonzalez. I thank thee. Heaven! 
That I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given to temper hours like this, 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings! 
( To Elmina). We will not part. 
But with the spirit's parting I 

Elmina. One farewell 
To her, that, mantled with sad loveliness. 
Doth slumber at our feet ! — My blessed child ! 
Oh ! in thy heart's affliction thou wert strong, 
And holy courage did pervade thy wo. 
As light the troubled waters! — Be at peace! 
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee ! — And thy life 
E'en then was struck, and withering at the coi<» 
— Farewell ! — thy parting look hath on me fallen, 
E en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now 
More like what thou hast been! — My soul is 

hushed, 
For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk 
And settled on its depths with that last smile 
Which from thine shone forth. — Thou hast not 

lived 
In vain — my child, farewell! 

Gonzalez. Surely for thee 
Death had no sting, Ximena ! — We are blest, 
To learn one secret of the shadowy pass. 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once more 
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower! 
In token of th' undying love and hope. 
Whose land is far away. [Exeunt. 

SCENE — THE WALLS OF THE CI TV. 

HERNANDEZ.— A few Citizens gatiiered round him. 

Hernandez. Why, men have cast the treasures, 
which their lives 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



65 



Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre, 
Ay, at their household hearths have Ht the brand. 
Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear 
The flame which gave their temples and their 

homes. 
In ashes, to the winds! — They have done this, 
Making a blasted void where once the sun 
Looked upon lovely dwellings ; and from earth 
Razing all record that on such a spot 
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept, 
And Irail Humanity knelt before her God ; 
— They have done this, in their free nobleness, 
Rather than see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Their holy places ! — Praise, high praise be theirs, 
Who have left man such lessons ! — And these 

things. 
Made your own hills their witnesses ! — The sky. 
Whose arch bends o'er you, and the seas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw 
The altar, and the birth-place, and the tomb, 
And all memorials of man's heart and faith, 
Thus proudly honoured !— Be ye not outdone 
By the departed ! — Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch 
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong ! 
A few bright torches and brief moments yet 
Shall baffle his flushed hope, and we may die, 
Laughing him unto scorn. — Rise, follow me, 
And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate. 
The ruin, not the yoke, and make thy towers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Citizen. We'll follow thee ! 
■ — Alas ! for our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we reared our children ! — But away ! 
The Moor shall plant no crescent o'er our fanes ! 

Voice {from a Tower on the Walls.) Suc- 
cours ! — Castile ! Castile ! 

Citizens {rushing to the spot.) It is even so! 
Now blessing be to Heaven, for we are saved ! 
Castile, Castile! 

Voice (from the Totcer.) Line after line of 
spears, 
Lance after lance, upon the horizon's verge, 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up, 
Doth skirt the plain! — In faith, a noble host! 

Another Voice. The Moor hath turned him 
from our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain I 

Citizens {shouting.) CSistile ! Castile I 

(GONZALEZ enters, supported by ELMINA and a Citizen.) 

Gonzalez. What shouts of joy are these 1 
Hernandez. Hail, chieftain ! hail! 
Thus ev'n in death 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown ! — Behold our God hath 

hoard, 
»\nd armed himself with vengeance! — Lo! they 

come ! 
The lances of Castile! 



Gonzalez. I knew, I knew 
Thou wouldst not utterly, my God, forsake 
Thy servant in his need ! — My blood and tears 
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth ! 
Praise to thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived 
To see this hour ! 

Elmina. And I too bless thy name. 
Though thou hast proved me unto agony! 
Oh God! — Thou God of chastening ! 

Voice {from the Tower.) They move on! 
I see the royal banner in the air. 
With its emblazoned towers! 

Gonzalez. Go, bring ye forth 
The banner of the Cid, and plant it here. 
To stream above me, for an answering sign 
That the good cross doth hold its lofty place 
Within Valencia still! — What see ye nowl 

Hernandez. I see a kingdom's might upon its 
path. 
Moving in terrible magnificence, 
Unto revenge and victory ! — With the flash 
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks, 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep. 
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, 
Like a land's harvest in the autumn-wind, 
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun. 
But flung from sheets of steel — it comes, it comes, 
The vengeance of our God ! 

Gonzalez. I hear it now. 
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, 
Like thunder-showers upon the forest-paths. 

Hernandez. Ay, earth knows well the omen of 
that sound. 
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's, 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Gonzalez. Hark! how the wind 
Swells proudly to the battle-march of Spain ! 
Now the heart feels its power ! — A little while 
Grant me to live, my God ! — What pause is this! 

Hernandez. A deep and dreadful one! — iii# 
serried files 
Level their spears for combat ; now the hosts' 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath, 
Silent, and face to face. 

VOICES HEARD WITHOUT, CHANTING. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod, 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in deatn 

No more may fear to die. 

Elmina {to Gonzalez.) It is the dedth-nvmp 
o'er thy daughter's bier ! 



— But I am calm, and e'en like gentle winds. 
That music, through the stillness of my heart, 
Sends mournful peace. 

Gonzalez. Oh ! well those solemn tones 
Accord with such an hour, for all her life 
Breathed of a hero's soul ! 
f^ sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain. 

Hernandez. Now, now they close!— Hark! 
what a dull dead sound 
Is in the Moorish war-shout ! — I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. — The shock is given — 
Lo! they have placed their shields before their 

hearts, 
And lowered their lances with the streamers on, 
And on their steeds bent forward ! — God for Spain ! 
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field ! 
— There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this ! — 'Tis not the gallant crests, 
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry ; 
The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itself! 

Gonzalez. Oh, raise me up. 
That I may look upon the noble scene 1 
— It will not be! — That this dull mist would pass 
A moment from my sight ! — Whence rose that 

shout. 
As in fierce triumph 1 

Hernandez {clasping his hands.) Must I look 
on this 1 
The banner sinks — ''tis taken! 

Gonzalez. Whose 1 

Hernandez. Castile's! 

Gonzalez. Oh, God of Battles ! 

Elmina. Calm thy noble heart! 
Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Hernandez. Cheer thee ye* ' 
Our knights have spurred to rescue. — There is 

now 
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things, 
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! — I see tall plumes 
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide, 
Swayed by the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate men, as cedar-boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood, 
Many a false corslet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through ! — Now, shout for Santiago, 

shout ! 
Lo! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barbed steeds go down 
With their helmed riders ! — Wlio, but one, can tell 
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush 
And trampling on of furious multitudes 1 

Gonzalez. Thou'rt silent! — See'st thou more? 

-My soul grows dark. 
dcrnandez. And dark and troubled as an an- 
gry sea, 



Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze.' 
— I can but tell thee how tall spears are crossed, 
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighten with the stroke! — But round the spot, 
Where, like a storm-felled mast, our standard sank, 
The heart of battle burns. 

Gonzalez. Where is that spot ? 

Hernadez. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, 
That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
In calm and stately grace. 

Gonzalez. There, didst thou say? 
Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! 
For on that spot they died ! — My children's blood 
Calls on th' avenger thence ! 

Elmina. They perished there ! 
— And the bright locks that waved so joyously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Ev'n on that place of death ! — Oh, Merciful ! 
Hush the dark thought within me ! 

Hernandez {xcith sudden exidlatiorC). Whoisne, 
On the white steed, and with the castled helm. 
And the gold-broidered mantle, which doth float 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight ; 
And the pale cross, which from his breast-plate 

gleams 
With star-like radiance 7 

Gonzalez (eagerly). Didst thou say the cross ? 

Hernandez. On his mailed bosom shines a broad 
white cross. 
And his long plumage through the darkening air 
Strearas like a snow-wreath. 

Gonzalez. That should be — • 

Hernandez. The king ! 
— Was it not told us how he sent, of late, 
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross, 
V/hich he who slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight ?(9) 

Gonzalez {springing up joyfully). My lung! 
my king ! 
Now all good saints for Spain ! — My noble king! 
And thou art there ! — That I might look once mora 
Upon thy face ! — But yet I thank thee, Heaven! 
That thou hast sent him from my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city! 

[i7e sinks back into Elmina' s arms. 

Hernandez. He hath cleared 
A pathway 'midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through yon close living mass, 
E'en as the gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters! — 'Tis redeemed — 
The castled banner ! — It is flung once more 
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds ! 
— There seems a wavering through the paynim 

hosts — 
Castile doth press them sore — Now, now rejoice I 

Gonzalez. What liast thou seen 1 

Hernandez. Abdullah falls ! He faHs! 
The man of blood i — the spoiler 1 he hath smiK 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



67 



I: I out King's path ! — Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez ! 

They give vpay, 
The Crescent's van is broken ! — On the hills 
And the dark pine-woods may the infidel 
Call vainly, in his agony of fear. 
To cover him from vengeance! — Lo! they fly! 
They of the forest and the wilderness 
Are scattered e'en as leaves upon the wind 1 
Wo to the sons of Afric ! — Let the plains, 
And the vine-mountains, and Hesperian seas, 
Take their dead unto them ! — that blood shall wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gonzalez {attevfipting to raise himself). Set me 
free 1 
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, 
After his battle-field ! 

Hernandez. Oh, blest in death ! 
Chosen of Heaven, farewell ! — Look on the Cross, 
And part from earth in peace ! 

Gonzalez. Now charge once more ! 
God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air! — Shout forth 'Castile!' 
Tlie day is ours I — I go ! but fear ye not ! 
For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons 
Have won their first good field ! [He dies. 

Elmina. Look on me yet ! 
Speak one farewell, my husband ! — must thy voice 
Enter my soul no more ! — Thine eye is fixed — 
Now is my life uprooted, — and 'tis well. 

(4 Sound oftriuxnphant Music is heard, and 
many Castilian Knights and Soldiers 
enter). 

A Citizen. Hush your triumphal sounds, al- 
though ye come 
E'en as deliverers I — But the noble dead. 
And those that mourn them, claim from human 

hearts 
Deep silent reverence. 

Elmina {rising proudly). No, swell forth, Cas- 
tile I 
Thy trumpet-music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! — How, know ye 

not 
That all arrayed for triumph, crowned and robed 
With the strong spirit which had saved the land, 
Ev'n now a conqueror to his rest is gone? 
^Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind 
Swell on with victory's shout ! — He will not hear — 
Hath earth a sound more sad ? 

Hernandez. Lift ye the dead. 
And bear him with the banner of his race 
Wavmg above him proudly, as it waved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb, wherem 
His warrior-sires are gathered. 

[ They raise the body. 

Elmina. Ay, tis thus 
I'hou shouldst be honoured I — And I follow thee 



With an unfaltering and a lofty step, 

To that last home of glory. She that wears 

In her deep heart the memory of thy love 

Shall thence draw strength for all things, till the 

God, 
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, 
Looking upon her still and chastened soul, 
Call it once more to thine ! 

( To the Castilians). 

Awake, I say. 
Tambour and trumpet, wake I — And let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal ! 
— So should a hero pass to hi-s repose. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 41, col. 1. 
Mountain Christians, those natives of Spam, 
who, under their prince, Pelayo, took refuge 
amongst the mountains of the northern provinces, 
where they maintained their religion and liberty, 
whilst the rest of their country was overrun by the 
Moors. 

Note 2, page 49, col. 1. 
Oh, free cloth sorrow pass, &c. 
Frey geht das Ungliick durch die ganze Erde. 
Schiller's Death of Wallenstein, act iv. sc. 2. 

Note 3, page 50, col. 2. 
Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid's 
favourite sword, taken in battle from the Moorish 
king Bucar. 

Note 4, page 50, col. 2. 
How he won Valencia from the Moor, &c. 
Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged, 
and taken by the armies of different nations, re- 
mained in the possession of the Moors for an hun- 
dred and seventy years after the Cid's death. It 
Was regained from them by King Don Jayme of 
Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whoso 
success I have ventured to suppose it governed by 
a descendant of the Campeador. 

Note 5, page 57, col. 2. 
It was a Spanish tradition, that the great bell of 
the Cathedral of Saragossa always tolled sponta- 
neously before a king of Spain died. 

Note 6, page 58, col. 2. 
" El que en buen hora nasco ;" he that was born 
in happy hour. An appellation given to the Cid 
in the ancient chronicles. 

Note 7, page 58, col. 2. . 
For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish 
legends, see The Romances and Chronicle of the 
Cid. 



68 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Note 8, page 63, col. 1. 

" La voila, telle que la mort nous I'a faite !" — 
Bossuei, Oraisons Funebres. 

Note 9, page &&, col. 2. 
This circumstance is recorded of King Don Al- 



fonso, the last of that name. He sent to the Cid's 
tomb for the cross whicn tTiat warrior was accus- 
tomed to wear upon his breast when he went to 
battle, and had it made into one for himself; " be- 
cause of the faith, which he had, that through it 
he should obtain the victory." — Southey's Chroni- 
cle of the Cid. 



A TRAGEDY. 



IN FIVE ACTS. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.^;. 

Count di Procida. 
Raimond di Procida, his Son, 
Eribert, Viceroy. 
De Couci. 
montalba. 

GUIDO. 

Alberti. 
Anselmo, a Monk. 
Vittoria. 

Constance, Sister to Eribert. 
Nobles, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, 

1 tf'C. ff-C. 

scene — PALERMO. 



ACT THE FIRST. 

SCENE I. — A VALLEY, WITH VINEYARDS AND COT- 
TAGES. 

Groups of Peasants— PROCIDA, disguised as a Pilgrim, 
amongst them. 

First Peasant. Ay, this was wont to be a fes- 
tal time 
In days gone by ! I can remember well 
The old familiar melodies that rose 
At break of morn, from all our purple hills. 
To welcome in the vintage. Never since 
Hath music seemed so sweet. But the light hearts 
Which to those measures beat so joyously 
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice 
Of joy through all the land. 

Second Peasant. Yes ! there are sounds 
Of revelry within the palaces. 
And the fair castles of our ancient lords. 
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear, 
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise 
At midnight's deepest hour. 

Third Peasant. Alas! we sat 
In happier days, so i^eacefully beneath 



The olives and the vines our fathers reared, 
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps 
Flew by us in the dance ! The time hath been 
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er 
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France 
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily 
As on the crested chieftain's. We are bowed 
E'en to the earth. 

Peasant's Child. My father, tell me when 
Shall the gay dance and song again resound 
Amidst our chesnut-woods, as in those days 
Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale 1 

First Peasant. When there are light and reck- 
less hearts once more 
In Sicily's green vales. Alas ! my boy. 
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl. 
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside 
The weight of work-day . care : — they meet, to 

speak 
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts 
They dare not breathe aloud. 

Procida (^fram the back ground). Ay, it is well 
So to relieve th' o'erburdened heart, which pants 
Beneath its weight of wrongs ; but better far 
In silence to avenge them! 

An old Peasant. What deep voice 
Came with that startling tone '? 

First Peasant. It was our guest s, 
The stranger pilgrim, who hath sojourned here 
Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him 

well: 
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye 
Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien 

accords 
111 vsdth such vestments. How he folds round him 
His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe 
Of knightly ermine ! That commanding step 
Should have been used in courts and camps to 

move. 
Mark him ! 

Old Peasant. Nay, rather, mark him not : the 
times 



Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts 

A cautious lesson. What should bring him here 1 

A Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! 

Old Peasant. Peace ! we are beset 
By snares on every side, and we must learn 
In silence and in patience to endure. 
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. 

Procida (coming forward indignantly). The 

word is death ! And what hath life for thee 

That thoi^ shouldst cling to it thusl thou abject 

thing ! 
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, 
And stamped with servitude. What ! is it life, 
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice 
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast 
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then. 
Strangers should catch its echo 1 — Is there aught 
In this so precious, that thy furrowed cheek 
Is blanched with terror at the passing thought 
Of hazarding some few and evil days, 
Which drag thus poorly on ? 

Some of the Peasants. Away, away! 
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. 

Procida. Why, what is danger ] — Are there 
deeper ills 
Than those ye bear thus calmly 7 Ye have drained 
The cup of bitterness, till nought remains 
To fear or shrink from — therefore, be ye strong ! 
Power dwelleth with despair. — Why start ye thus 
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts 
Locked in your secret souls 1 — Full well I know, 
There is not one amongst you, but hath nursed 
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make 
One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs, 
And thine — and thine, — but if within your breasts 
There is no chord that vibrates to my voice, 
Then fare ye well. 

A Youth {coming forward.) No, no! say on, 
say on ! 
There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here, 
That kindle at thy words. 

Peasant. If that indeed 
Thou hast a hope to give us. 

Procida. There is hope 
For all who suffer with indignant thoughts 
Which work in silent strength. What ! think ye 

Heaven 
O'erlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile 
His crested head on high 1 — I tell you, no ! 
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour 
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king. 
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn, 
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less 
Is justice throned above ; and her good time 
Comes rushing on in storms : that royal blood 
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth 
And hath been heard. The traces of the past 
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven forget, 



Peasant. Had we but arms and leaders, we are 
men 
Who might earn vengeance yet ; but wanting these 
What wouldst thou have us do 1 

Procida. Be vigilant ; 
And when the signal wakes the land, arise ! 
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be 
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. 

[E.rit Procida. 

First Peasant. This man should be a prophet: 
how he seemed 
To read our hearts with his dark searching glance 
And aspect of command ! And yet his garb 
Is mean as ours. 

Second Peasant. Speak low; I know him well. 
At first his voice disturbed me like a dream 
Of other days ; but I remember now 
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served 
Beneath the banners of our kings. 'Tis he 
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, 
The Count di Procida. 

Peasant. And is this he ? 
Then Heaven protect him ! for around his steps 
Will many snares be set. 

Mrst Peasant. He comes not thus 
But with some mighty purpose ; doubt it not : 
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one, 
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved 
True to our native princes. But away! 
The noon-tide heat is past, and from the seas 
Light gales are wandering through the vineyards* 

now 
We may resume our toil. 

[Exeunt Peasants. 

SCENE II. THE TERRACE OF A CASTLE. 

ERIBERT. VITTORIA. 

Viitoria. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart 
Blighted and cold 1 — Th' affections of my youth 
Lie slumbering in the grave ; their fount is closed, 
And all the soft and playful tenderness 
Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet 
Deep wrongs have seared it ; all is fled from mine. 
Urge me no more. 

Eribert. O lady ! doth the flower 
That sleeps entombed through the long wintrv 

storms 
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spi-ing ; 
And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, 
Wake at love's voice 1 

Vittoria. Love ! — make love's name thy spell. 
And I am strong ! — the very word calls up 
From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, 

arrayed 

In arms against thee ! — Kno west thou whom I loved , 
While my soul's dwelling-place was still on eartn '' 
One who was born for empire, and endowed 
With such high gifts of princely majesty. 



As bowed all hearts before him ! — Was he not 
Brave, royal, beautiful 1 — And such he died ; 
He died ! — hastthou forgotten^ — And thou 'rthere, 
Thou meetest my glance with eyes which coldly 

looked, 
— Coldly ! — nay, rather with triumphant gaze, 
Upon his murder ! — Desolate as I am, 
Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride, 
Oh, my lost Conradin ! there should be still 
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe 
The hearts of thine assassins. 

Eribert. Haughty dame ! 
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed. 
Know, danger is around thee : thou hast foes 
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone 
Can shield thee from their arts. 

Vittoria. Provenfal, tell 
Thy tale of danger to some happy heart. 
Which hath its little world of loved ones round, 
For whom to tremble ; and its tranquil J03's 
That make earth, Paradise. I stand alone ; 
—They that are blest may fear. 

Eribert. Is there not one 
Who ne'er commands in vain 1 — proud lady, bend 
Thy spirit to thy fate ; for know that he. 
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path 
O'er the bowed neck of prostrate Sicil}^, 
Hath borne him to dominion ; he, my king, 
Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon 
My deeds have well deserved ; and who hath power 
Against his mandates? 

Vittoria. Viceroy, tell thy lord, 
That e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land. 
Souls may not all be fettered. Oft, ere now. 
Conquerors have rocked the earth, yet failed to 

tame 
Unto their purposes, that restless fire, 
Inhabiting man's breast. — A spark bursts forth. 
And so they perish I — 'tis the fate of those 
Wiio sport with lightning — And it may be his. 
— Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. 
Eribert. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lolly heart 
to bear 
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 
Bethink thee, lady ! — Love may change — hath 

changed 
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 
Still finds w'hat most it seeks for. Fare thee well. 
— Look to it yet ! — To-morrow I return. 

\Exit Eribert. 
Vittoria. To-morrow! — Some ere now have 
slept, and dreamt 
Of morrows which ne'er dawned — or ne'erforthem; 
So silently their deep and still repose 
Hath melted into death ! — Are there not balms 
In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep 
Like th's, on me 1 — Yet should my spirit still 
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear 
Tc his a glorious tale of his own isle, 



Free and avenged.— T/iow should'st be now a 

work, 
In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift 
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, 
Through the red heaven of sunset ! — sleep'ut thou 

still. 
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread 
The glowing vales beneath? 

{Procida enters disguised.') 

Ha ! who art thou. 
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step 
Dost steal upon me 7 

Procida. One, o'er whom hath passed 
All that can change man's aspect ! — Yet not long 
Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. 
— I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, 
Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. 
— Know' St thou this, lady? — [He shows a ring 

Vittoria. Righteous Heaven ! the pledge 
Amidst his people from the scaflbld tnrown 
By him who perished, and whose kingly blood 
E'en yet is unatoned. — My heart beats high — 
— Oh, welcome, welcome ! thou art Procida, 
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer! 

Procida. Call me so 
When my great task is done. Yet who can tell 
If the returned be welcome? — Many a heart 
Is changed since last we met. 

Vittoria. Why dost thou gaze. 
With such a still and solemn earnestness, 
Upon my altered mien? 

Procida. That I may read 
If to the widowed love of Conradin, 
Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, 
I now entrust my fate. 

Vittoria. Thou, Procida! 
That thou shouldst wrong me thus ! — Prolong thy 

gaze 
Till it hath found an answer. 

Procida. 'Tis enough. 
I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change 
Is from death's hue to fever's ; in the wild 
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, 
And in thy wasted form. A)', 'tis a deep 
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace. 
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters 
Of noble suflering ; — on thy brow the same 
Commanding spirit holds its native state 
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice 
Of Fame hath told afar that thou shouldst wud 
This tyrant, Eribert. 

Vittoria. And told it not 
A tale of insolent love repelled with scorn, 
Of stern commands and fearful menaces 
Met with indignant courage? — Procida ! 
It was but now that haughtily I braved 
His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hapa, 
With its fair appanage of wide domains 
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



71 



To recompense his crimes. — I smiled — ay, smiled — 
In prow security! for the high of heart 
Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, 
Though it he dark and lone. 

Procida. Thou shalt not need 
To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my vrords : 
I tell thee, that a spirit is abroad, 
Which will not slumber till its path be traced 
By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live ! 
It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see 
The mighty expiation ; for thy heart 
(Forgive me that I wronged its faith) hath nursed 
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set 
Deep on thy marble brow. 

Vittoria. Then thou canst tell. 
By gazing on the withered rose, that there 
Time, or the blight, hath worked ! — Ay, this is in 
Thy vision's scope : but oh ! the things unseen. 
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass 
Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind 
To ruin struck by grief ! — Yet doth my soul, 
Far, 'midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, 
Wherein is bright vitality. — 'Tis to see 
His blood avenged, and his fair heritage. 
My beautiful native land, in glory risen, 
Lilie a warrior from his slumbers ! 

Procida. Hear'st thou not 
With what a deep and ominous moan, the voice 
Of our great mountain swells'! — There will be soon 
A fearful burst ! — Vittoria ! brood no more 
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth 
Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still) 
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark 
Thou 'It find already kindled. I move on 
In shadow, yet awakening in my path 
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. 

Vittoria. When shall we meet again 1 — Are we 
not those 
Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou 

not 
That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near 
While thus we hold communion? 

Procida. Yes, I feel 
Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee. 
Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not 
Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb ; 
He shall have nobler tribute !^-I must hence. 
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. 
[Exeunt separately. 

SCENE III. — THE SEA SHORE. 
RAIMOND DI PROCIDA. CONSTANCE. 

Constance. There is a shadow far within your 

eye, 
Which hath of late been deepening. You were 

wont 
Upon the clearness of your open brow 
To wear a brighter spiiit. shedding round 



Joy, like our southern sun. It is not well, 
If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soulj 
Tc hide it from affection. Why is this, 
My Raimond, why is this 1 

Raimond. Oh ! from the dreams 
Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood stU! 
A wild and stormy wakening 1 — They depart, 
Light after light, our glorious visions fade. 
The vaguely beautiful ! till earth, unveiled, 
Lies pale around ; and Hfe's realities 
Press on the soul, from its unfathomed depth 
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, 
In all their fearful strength! — 'Tis ever thus, 
And doubly so with me ; for I awoke 
With high aspirings, making it a curse 
To breathe where noble minds are bowed, as here. 
— To breathe! — It is not breath ! 

Constance. I know thy grief, 
— And is 't not minel — for those devoted men 
Doomed with their life to expiate some wild word, 
Born of the social hour. Oh ! I have knelt, 
E'en at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears, 
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut 
Against my voice ; yet will I not forsake 
The cause of mercy. 

Raimond. Waste not thou thy prayers, 
Oh, gentle love, for them. There's little need 
For Pity, though the galling chain be worn 
By some few slaves the less. Let them depart! 
There is a world beyond th' oppressor's reach, 
And thither lies their way. 

Constance. Alas ! I see 
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the 
soul. ^ 

Raimond. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my 
words, 
From feelings hourly stung, have caught, per- 
chance, 
A tone of bitterness. — Oh ! when thine eyes, 
With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are 

fixed 
Thus tenderly on mine, [ should forget 
All else in their soft beams ; and yet I came 
To tell thee— 

Constance. Whatl What wouldst thou say? 
O speak! 
Thou wouldst not leave me ! 

Raimond. I have cast a cloud. 
The shadow of dark thoughts and ruined fortunes. 
O'er thy bright spirit. Happily, were I gone. 
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more 
In the clear sunny light of youth and joy, 
E'en as before we met — before we loved ! 

Constance. This is but mockery. — Well tnou 
know'st thy love 
Hath given me nobler being; made my heart 
A home for all the deep sublimities 
Of strong affection; and I would not change 
Th' exalted life I draw from that pure souicn. 



72 



, MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



With all its chequered hues of hope and feai, 
Ev'n for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind ! 
Have I deserved this? 

Raimond. Oh ! thou hast deserved 
A. love less fatal to thy love and mine. 
Think not 'tis mockery 1 — But I can not rest 
To be the scorned and trampled thing I am 
In this degraded land. Its very skies, 
That smile as if but festivals were held 
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down 
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine 
For freedom's chartered air. I would go forth 
To seek my noble father ; he hath been 
Too long a lonely exile, and his name 
Seems fading in the dim obscurity 
Which gathers round my fortunes. 

Constance. Must we part 7 
And is it come to this 1 — Oh ! I have still 
Deemed it enough of joy with thee to share 
E'en grief itself — and now — but this is vain; 
Alas! too deep, too fond, in woman's love, 
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves 
The treasures of her soul ! 

Raimond. Oh, speak not thus! 
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold 
Upon my inmost heart. — I leave thee but 
To be more worthy of a love like thine. 
For I have dreamt of fame ! — A few short years, 
And we may yet be blest. 

Constance. A few short years ! 
Less time may well suffice for death and fate 
To work all change on earth ! — To break the ties 
Which early love had formed ; and to bow down 
Th' Elastic spirit, and to blight each flower 
Strewn in life's crowded path ! — But be it so ! 
Be it enough to know that happiness 
Meets thee on other shores. 

Raimond. Where'er I roam 
Thou shalt be with my soul ! — Thy soft low voice 
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain 
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back 
Life's morning freshness. — Oh ! that there should be 
Things, which we love with such deep tenderness, 
But, through that love, to learn how much of wo 
Dwells in one hour like this ! — Yet weep thou not ! 
We shall meet soon ; and many days, dear love, 
Ere I depart. 

Constance. Then there's a respite still. 
Days ! — not a day but in its course may bring 
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside 
Th' impending blow we shrink from. — Fare thee 
well. (returning) 

—Oh, Raimond! this is not our last farewell 1 
Thou wouldst not so deceive me 1 

Raimond. Doubt me not, 
•gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. 

[Exit Constance. 

Tviitmond (after a -pause'). When shall I breathe 
in freedom, anu give scope 



To those untameable and burnmg thoughts 

And restless aspirations, which consume 

My heart i' th' land of bondage? — Oh! with you, 

Ye everlasting images of power, 

And of infinity ! thou blue-rolling deep, 

And you , ye stars ! whose beams are characters 

Wherewith the oracles of faith are traced ; 

With you my soul finds room, and casts aside 

The weight that doth oppress her. — But ,mj 

thoughts 
Are wandering far ; there should be one to share 
This awful and majestic solitude 
Of sea and heaven with me. 

(Procida enters unobserved). 
It is the hour 
He named, and yet he comes not. 

Procida (coming forward). He is here. 

Raimond. Now, thou mysterious stranger, 
thou, whose glance 
Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue 
Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours; 
Reveal thyself; what art thou? 

Procida. One, whose life 
Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way 
Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms. 
With still a mighty aim. — But now the shades 
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come 
To this, my native land, that I may rest 
Beneath its vines in peace. 

Raimond. Seek'st thou for peace? 
This is no land of peace ; unless that deep 
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men'a 

thoughts 
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
With a dull hollow semblance of repose, 
May so be called. 

Procida. There are such calms full oft 
Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been 
So vainly schooled by fortune, and inured 
To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink. 
That it should irk my spirit to put on 
Such guise of hushed submissiveness as best 
May suit the troubled aspect of the times. 

Raimond. Why, then, thou art welcome, stran- 
ger ! to the land 
Where most disguise is needful. — He were bold 
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow 
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn 
From the same past, their long remembrances, 
Now meet in terror, or no more ; lest hearts 
Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour. 
Should pour out some rash word, which roving 

winds 
Might whisper to our conquerors. — This it is, 
To wear a foreign yoke. 

Procida. It matters not 
To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



And can suppress its workings, till endurance 
r>ecoiaes a nature. We can tame ourselves 
To all extivmes, and there is that in life 
To whica we cling with most tenacious grasp, 
Even when its loily claims are all reduced 
To the poor common privilege of breathing. — 
Why dost thou turn away 7 

Raimond. What wouldest tliou with me 1 
I deemed thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived, 
And made its throne on thy commanding brow, 
One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn 
So to abase its high capacities 
For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest. 
What wouldest thou with me 1 

Procida. I would counsel thee, 
Thou must do that which men — ay, valiant men, — 
Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court, 
And in the stately camp, and at the board 
Of midnight revellers, whose flushed mirth is all 
A strife, won hardly. — Where is he, whose heart 
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze 
Of mortal eye 1 — If vengeance wait the foe. 
Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths concealed 
Beneath a smiling surface. — Youth I I say 
Hcep thy soul down ! — Put on a mask ! — 'tis worn 
Alike by pover and weakness, and the smooth 
And specious intercourse of life requires 
Its aid in every scene. 

Raimond. Away, dissembler 1 
Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks. 
Fitted to every nature. Will the free 
And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts 
By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey ? 
It is because I wiil not clothe myself 
In a vile garb of coward semblances. 
That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart. 
To bid what most I love a long farewell. 
And seek my country on some distant shore. 
Where such things are unknown ! 

Procida {exultingly). Why, this is joy I 
After a long conflict with the doubts and fears. 
And the poor subtleties of meaner minds, 
To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing 
Oppression hath not crushed,— High-hearted youth! 
Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again 
Visit these shores — 

Raimond. My father ! what of him 1 
Speak ! was he known to thee ? 

Procida. In distant lands 
With him I've traversed many a wild, and looked 
On many a danger; and the thought that thou 
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, 
Oft through the storm hath cheered him. 

Raimond. Dost thou deem 
That still he lives 1 — Oh ! if it he in chains, 
In wo, in poverty's obscurest cell. 
Say but he lives — and I will track his steps 
E'en to earth's verge ! 

Procida. It may be that he lives : 
G 9 



Though long his name hath ceased to be a woro 
Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound 
May yet be heard ! — Raimond di Procida, 
— Rememberest thou thy father 1 

Raimond. From my mind 
His form hath faded long, for years have passed 
Since he went forth to exile : but a vague, 
Yet powerful, image of deep majesty, 
Still dimly gathering round each thought of hmi, 
Doth claim instinctive reverence ; and my lovt 
For his inspiring name hath long become 
Part of my being. 

Procida. Raimond ! doth no voice 
Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms 
That would enfold thee now 1 — My son ! my son ; 

Raimond. Father! — Oh God !— my father! — 
Now I know 
Why my heart woke before thee I 

Procida. Oh! this hour 
Makes hope, reality ; for thou art all 
My dreams had pictured thee ! 

Raimond. Yet why so long, 
E'en as a stranger, hast thou crossed my paths, 
One nameless and unknown 7 — and yet I felt 
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. 

Procida. Because I would not link thy fate witn 
mine. 
Till I could hail the day-spring of that hope 
Which now is gathering round us. — Listen, youth ! 
Thou hast told me of a subdued, and scorned, 
And trampled land, whose \ery soul is bowed 
And fashioned to her chains: — but /tell thee 
Of a most generous and devoted land, 
A land of kindling energies ; a land 
Of glorious recollections! — proudly true 
To the high memory of her ancient kings. 
And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast 
Her alien bondage off! 

Raimond. And where is this 1 

Procida. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! 
Her spirit is awake, and moving on, ' 

In its deep silence mightier, to regain 
Her place amongst the nations ; and the hour 
Of that tremendous effort is at hand. 

Raimond. Can it be thus indeed 1 — Thou pour- 
est new life 
Through all my burning veins ! — I am as one 
Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep 
To the full glorious day. 

Procida. Thou shalt hear more ! 
Thou shalt hear things which would, — which isiL 

arouse 
The proud, free spirits of our ancestors 
E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well ' 
Be secret I — for along my destined path 
I yet must darkly move. — Now, follow me ; 
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts 
There lies a nation's strength. 

Raimond. My noble falhei ! 



74 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Thy words have given me all for which I pined — 
i\n aim, a hope, a purpose ! — And the blood 
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, 
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
By the quick sun-stroke freed. 

Procida. Ay, this is well ! 
Such natures burst men's chains ! — Now, follow me. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT THE SECOND. 

SCENE I. APARTMENT IN A PALACE. 

ERIBERT. CONSTANCE. 

Constance-. Will you not hear me 1 — Oh ! that 
thev who need 
Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live. 
While Mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, 
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, 
In their vain exercise of pageant power. 
Hard and relentless ! — Gentle brother, yet, 
'Tis in your choice to imitate that Heaven 
Whose noblest joy is pardon. 

Eribert. 'Tis too late. 
You have a soft and xnoving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody — but they must die. 

Constance. What, die ! — for words 1 — for breath, 
which leaves no trace 
To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends, 
And is, being uttered, gone "? — Why, 't were enough 
For such a venial fault, to be deprived 
One little day of man's free heritage. 
Heaven's warm and sunny light! — Oh! if you deem 
That evil harbours in their souls, at least 
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall bid stern justice wake. 

Eribert. I am not one 
Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue fof their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crowned and armed. — And, 

mark me, sister ! 
To a distrustful nature it might seem 
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being 
Suspicion holds no power. — And yet take note. 
—I have said, and they must die. 

Constance. Have you no fear? 

Eribert. Of what % — that heaven should fall 1 

Constance. No ' — but that earth 
Should arm in madness. — Brother! I have seen 
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs. 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance, 
My heart hath died within me. 

Eribert. Am I then 
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, 
;\ dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look 1 

Constance. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the 
aoiil. 



Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
But theirs, to liberty! — Have not these men 
Brave sons, or noble brothers 7 

Eribert. Yes ! whose name 
It rests with me to make a word of fear, 
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men. 

Constance. But not forgotten ! — Ah ! beware, 
beware ! 
—Nay, look not sternly on me. — There is one 
Of that devoted band, who 3'et will need 
Years to be ripe for death. — He is a youth, 
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek 
The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but 

now 
His mother left me, with a timid hope 
Just davs'ning in her breast ; — and I — I dared 
To foster its faint spark. — You smile ! — Oh! then 
He will be saved ! 

Eribert. Nay, I but smiled to think 
What a fond fool is hope! — She may be taught 
To deem that the great sun will change his course 
To work her pleasure ; or the tomb give back 
Its inmates to her arms. — In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus 
Have mocked the boy's sad mother — I have said. 
You should not thus have mocked her! — Now, 
farewell. \_E.xit Eribert. 

Constance. Oh, brother! hard of heart! — for 
deeds like these 
There must be fearful chastening, if on high 
Justice doth hold her state. — And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son 
Is thus to perish ! — Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too; — for heaven js merciful. 
— 'Twill be a bitter task ! [E.xit Constance, 

SCENE II. A RUINED TOWER SURROUNDED BY 

WOODS. 

PROCIUA. VITTORIA. 

Procida. Thy vassals are prepared then 1 

Vittoria. Yes, they wait 
Thy summons to their task. 

Procida. Keep the flame bright, 
But hidden, till its hour. — Wouldst thou dare, 

lady, 
To join our councils at the night's mid- watch, 
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross 1 

Vittoria. What should I shrink from? 

Procida. Oh ! the forest paths 
Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams 
Through their high arches: but when powerful 

night 
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale 
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds 
Of her mysterious winds ; their aspect tht.n 
Is of another and more fearful world ; 
A realm of indistinct and shadowy fornw, 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



75 



Wakening strange thoughts, ahnost too much for 

this, 
Our frail terrestrial nature. 

Vittoria. Well I know 
All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' 

abodes 
Where through the silence of my soul have passed 
Voices, and visions from the sphere of those 
That have to die no more ! — Nay, doubt it not ! 
If such unearthly intercourse hath e'er 
Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts 
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, 
Unmaddened could sustain the fearful joy 
And glory of its trances! — at the hour 
Which makes guilt tremulous, and people's earth 
And air with infinite, viewless multitudes, 
I will be with thee, Procida. 

Procida. Thy presence 
Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls 
Of suflering and indignant men, arouse 
That which may strengthen our majestic cause 
With yet a deeper power. — Knowest thou the 
spot? 

Vittoria. Full well. There is no scene so wild 
and lone 
In th-ese dim woods, but I have visited 
lis tangled shades. 

Procida. At midnight then we meet. 

[Exit Procida. 

Vittoria. Why should I fear1 — Thou wilt be 
with me, thou, 
Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soul, 
Spirit of him I love! that meetest me still 
In loneliness and silence; in the noon 
Of the wild night, and in the forest-depths. 
Known but to me ; for whom thou givest the winds 
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, 
Til! my heart faints with that o'erthrilling joy! 
— Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips 
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with 

shame, 
That thou art unavencjed! 



SCENE III. — A CHAPEL, WITH 
WHICH IS LAID A SWORD.- 



PROCIDA. RAIMOND. MONTALBA, 



Montalba. And know you not my story 1 

Procida. In the lands 
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs 
Were numbered with our country's; but their tale 
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. 
I would fain hear it now. 

Montalba. Hark! while you spoke. 
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, 
Which even like death came o'er me : — 'twas a 

night 
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon 
A night of sweeping winds of rustling leaves. 



And swift wild shadows floating o'er the earth, 
Clothed with a phantom-life ; wlien, after years 
Of battle and captivity, I spurred 
My good steed homewards. — Oh! what lovely 

dreams 
Rose on my spirit ! — There were tears and smiles, 
But all of joy! — And there were bounding steps, 
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of lovi? 
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck, 
When his plumed helm is doffed. — Hence, feeble 

thoughts ! 
■^I am sterner now, j'et once such dreams were 
mine ! 

Raimond. And were they realized 1 

Montalba. Youth 1 Ask me not. 
But listen ! — I drew near my own fair home; 
There was no light along its walls, no sound 
Of bugle peahng from the watch-tower's height 
At my approach, although my trampling steed 
Made the earth ring ; yet the wide gates were 

thrown 
All open. — Then my heart misgave me first, 
And on the threshold of my silent hall 
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by 
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which 

pierced 
My soul e'en now. — I called — my struggling voice 
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's, names ; 
They answered not — I roiised my failing strength, 
And wildly rushed within — And they were there. 

Raimond. And was all well 1 

Montalba. Ay, well ! — for death is well. 
And they were all at rest ! — I see them yet. 
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had failed 
To stay th' assassin's arm I 

Raimond. Oh, righteous Heaven! 
Who had done this 1 

Montalba. Who! 

Procida. Canst thou question, xcho? 
Whom hath the earth to perpetuate such deeds, 
In the cold blooded revelry of crime, 
[Exit Vittoria. Jjut those whose yoke is on us ] 

Raimond. Man of wo! 
What words hath pity for despair like thine"? 

Montalba. Pity! fond youth! — My soul disdains 
the grief 
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies, 
To ask a vain companionship of tears, 
And so to be relieved ! 

Procida. For woes like these, 
There is no sympathy but vengeance. 

Montalba. ]N one ! 
Therefore I brought you hither, that youi" hearts 
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! — Look round 
We are in the awful presence of the dead ; 
Within yon tomb they sleep, whose gentle blo<JU 
Weighs down the murderer's soul. — They sleej. ! 

—but I 
Am wakeful o'er their dust ! — I laid my swora 



l MONUMENT, 
-MOONLIGHT. 



76 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, 
As on an altar ; and th' eternal stars, 
And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, 
i\o more to wield it save in one great cause, 
The vengeance of the grave ! — And now the hour 
Of that atonement comes! 

[He takes the sword from the tomb. 

Raimond. My spirit burns 1 
And my full heart almost to bursting swells. 
—Oh ! for the day of battle ! 

Procida. Raimond ! they 
Wliose souls are dark with guiltless blood must 

die; 
■ But not in battle. 

Raimond. How, my father 1 

Procida. No ! 
Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach 
Another lesson. — But th' appointed hour 
Advances. — Thou wilt join our chosen band, 
Noble Montalba'? 

Montalba. Leave me for a time, 
That I may calm my soul by intercourse 
With the still dead, before I mix with men. 
And with their passions. I have nursed for years, 
In silence and in solitude, the flame 
Which doth consume me ; and it is not used 
Thus to be looked or breathed on. — Procida! 
I would be tranquil — or appear so — ere 
! join your brave confederates. Through my heart 
There struck a pang — but it will soon have passed. 

Procida. Remember! — in the cavern by the 
cross. 
Now, follow me. my son. 

[Exeunt Procida and Raimond. 

Montalba (after a pause, leaning on the tomb). 
Said h«, "mxj son?" — Now, why should this man's 

life 
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son. 
And I be desolate 1 — How strange a sound 
Was that — " my son!" — I had a boy, who might 
Have worn as free a soul upon his brow 
As doth this youth. — Why should the thought of 

him 
Thus haunt me 1 — when I tread the peopled ways 
(3f life again, I shall be passed each hour 
By fathers with their children, and I must 
Learn calmly to look on. — Methinks 'twere now 
A gloomy consolation to behold 
All men bereft, as I am! — But away, 
Vaui thoughts'. — One task is left for blighted hearts, 
And it shall be fulfilled. 

[Exit Montalba. 

H'jENE IV. — ENTRANCE OF A CAVE, SURROUNDED BY 
HOCKS AND FORESTS. A RUDE CROSS SEEN 
AMONGST THE ROCKS. 

PROCIDA. RAIMOND. 
'*Tocida. And it is thus, beneath the solemn 
skip-' 



Of midnight, and in solitary caves, 

Where the wild forest-creatures make their lair,— • 

Is 't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold 

The councils of tlieir country 1 

Raimond. Wh)', such scones 
In their primeval majesty, beheld 
Thus by faint starlight, and the partial glare 
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire 
Far deeper thoughts than pillared halls, wherein 
Statesmen hold weary vigils. — Are we not 
O'ershadowed by that Etna, which of old 
With its dread prophecies, hath struck dismay 
Through tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek a 

home 
In other climes? — Hark! from its depths e'en now 
What hollow moans are sent ! 

Enler MONTALBA, GUIDO, and other Sicilians. 

Procida. Welcome, my brave associates ! — We 
can share 
The wolf's wild freedom here ! — Th' oppressor's 

haunt 
Is not 'midst rocks and caves. Are we all met 1 

Sicilians. All, all ! 

Procida. The torch-light, swayed by every gust, 
But dimly shows your features. — Where is he 
Who from his battles had returned to breathe 
Once more, without a corslet, and to meet 
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles. 
Blent with his dreams of homel — Of that dark tale 
The rest is known to vengeance ! — Art thou here, 
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, 
Childless Montalbal 

Montalba (advancing). He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate father, in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Thou, too, come forth, 
From thine own halls an exile ! — Dost thou make 
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still. 
While hostile banners, o'er thy rampart walls, 
Wave their proud blazonry? 

First Sicilian. Even so. I stood 
Last night before my own ancestral towers 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head — what recked it? — There was 

joy 

Within, and revelry; the festive lamps 

Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs, 

r th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little 

deemed 
Who heard their melodies ! — but there are thoughts 
Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows 
Known to the mountain-echoes. — Procida ! 
Call on the outcast when revenge is nigh, 
Procida. I knew a young Sicilian, one whose 
heart 
Should be all fire.- On that most guilty day. 
When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perished ; he, of whom 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



( siieak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not tiJ, 
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, 
Calling upon his father, whose last look 
Turned full on him its parting agony. 
That father's blood gushed o'er him ! — and the boy 
Then dried his tears, and, with a kindling eye, 
And a proud flush on his young cheek, looked up 
To the bright heaven. — Doth he remember still 
That bitter hour 1 

Second Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ! 
— Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Our band shows gallantly — but there 
are men 
Who should be with us now, had they not dared 
In some wild moment of festivity 
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish 
For Freedom I — and some traitor — it might be 
A breeze perchance — bore the forbidden sound 
To Eribert : — so they must die — unless 
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select 
Some other victim first! — But have they not 
Brothers or sons amongst us. 

Guido. Look on me ! 
I have a brother, a young high-souled boy, 
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow 
That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp 
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is 
A glorious creature! — But his doom is sealed 
With their' s of whom you spoke; and I have 

knelt— 
— Ay, scorn me not ! 'twas for his life — I knelt — 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spurned me. — But the stain 
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off, 
And thus it shall be cancelled ! — Call on me, 
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. 

Procida. I call upon thee now ! The land's high 
soul 
Is roused, and movii ig onward, like a breeze 
Or a swift sunbeam kindling nature's hues 
To deeper life before it. In his chains, 
The peasant dreams of freedom! — ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands. — No praise be her's 
For what she blindly works ! — When slavery's cup 
O'erHows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To dull our senses, through each burning vein 
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength 
To burst man's fetters — and they shall be burst ! 
I have hoped, when hope seemed frenzy; but a 

power 
Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
Unswerving energy on one great aim, 
To make and rule its fortunes! — I have been • 
A wanderer in the fulness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and s^as, 
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, 



To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: 
But we must give the signal. Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure Heaven, whose eve 
Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends 
The arm that strikes for freedom; speak! decree 
The fate of our oppressors. 

Montalba. Let them fall 
When dreaming least of peril ! — When the heart. 
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. — Hide the 

sword 
With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the wine-cup shines 
Red in the festal torch-light ; meet we there. 
And bid them welcome to the feast of death. 

Procida. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy 
words 
Scarce meet our ears. 

Montalba. Why, then, I thus repeat 
Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth 
In some free festal hour, and wo to him 
Who first shall spare ! 

Hairnond. Must innocence and guilt 
Perish alike? 

Montalba. Who talks of innocence'? 
When hath their hand been stayed for innocencel 
Let them all perish ! — Heaven will choose its own. 
Why should their children live 7 — The earthquake 

whelms 
Its undistinguished thousands, making graves 
Of peopled cities in its path — and this 
Is Heaven's dread justice — ay, and it is well ! 
Why then should we be tender, when the skies 
Deal thus with man?— What, if the infant bleed? 
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs ? 
What, if the youthful bride perchance should fall 
In her triumphant beauty? — Should we pause? 
As if death were not mercy to the pangs 
Which make our lives the records of our foes ! 
Let them all perish! — And if one be found 
Amidst our band, to stay th' avenging steel 
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love, 
Then be his doom as theirs ! [A pause. 

Why gaze ye thus? 
Brethren, what means your silence? 

Sicilians. Be it so ! 
If one amongst us stay th' avenging steel 
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs! 
Pledge we our faith to this I 

Raimond {rushing forwardindignanlly.') Our 
faith to Ihisl 
No! I but dreamt I hgard it ! — Can it be ? 
My countrymen, my father! — Is it thus 
That freedom should be won? — Awake! Awake 
To loftier thoughts! — Lift up, exultingly, 
On the crowned heights, and to the sweepnij^ 

winds. 
Your glorious banner ! — Let your trumj.'et's bias* 
Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! Cail .'ioni . 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear 
The stranger's yoke no longer! — What is he 
Who carries on his practised lip a smile, 
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits 
Till the heart bound? with joy, to still its beatings'? 
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from, 
And our blood curdle at — Ay, yours and mine — 
A murderer! — Heard ye 1 — Shall that name with 

ours 
Go down to after days? — Oh, friends! a cause 
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright 

names 
Of the elder time as rallying-words to men, 
Sounds full of might and immortality ! 
And shall not ours be such 1 

Montalba. Fond dreamer, peace ! 
Fame! What is fame? — Will our unconscious 

dust 
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave, 
At the vain breath of praise 1 — I tell thee, youth, 
Our souls are parched with agonizing thirst. 
Which must be quenched though death were in 

the draught : 
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
No other joy unblighted. 
Procida. Oh ! my son. 
The time is past for such high dreams as thine. 
Thou know'st not whom we deal with. Knightly 

faith, 
And chivalrous honour, are but things whereon 
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 
And, for our names — whate'er the deeds, by which 
We burst our bondage — is it not enough 
That in the chronicle of days to come, 
We, through a bright ' For Ever,' shall be called 
The men who saved their country 1 

Haimond. Many a land 
Hath bowed beneath the yoke, and then arisen, 
As a strong lion rending silken bonds. 
And on the open field before high Heaven, 
Won such majestic vengeance, as hath made 
Its name a power on earth. — Ay, nations own 
It is enough of glory to be called 
The children of the mighty, who redeemed 
Their native soil — but not by means like these. 
Montalba. I have no children. — Of Montalba's 
blood 
iNot one red drop dolh circle through the veins 
Of aught that breathes ! — Why, what have /to do 
With far futurity 7 — My spirit lives 
But in the past.-^Away! when thou dost stand 
On this fair earth, as doth a blasted tree 
Which the warm sun revives not, then return 
Strong in thy desolation: but till then, 
rhou art not for our purpose; we have need 
Of more unshrinking hearts. 
Raimond. Montalba, know, 
shrink from crime alone. Oh ! if my voice 



Might yet have power amongst you, I would say, 
Associates, leaders, be avenged I but yet 
As knights, as warriors ! 

Montalba. Peace! have we not borne 
Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains'? 
We are not knights and warriors. — Our brigh4 

crests 
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. 
Boy ! we are slaves — and our revenge shall be 
Deep as a slave's disgrace. 

Raimond. Why, then farewell: 
I leave you to your counsels. He that still 
Would hold his lofty nature undebased, 
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here. 

Procida. And is it thus indeed? — dost thou 
forsake 
Our cause, my son ? 

Raimond. Oh, father! what proud hopes 
This ho'ur hath blighted!- -yet whate'er betide, 
It is a noble privilege to look up 
Fearless in heaven's bright face — and this is mine, 
And shall be still. — [Exit Raimond. 

Procida. He's gone ! — Why, let it be ! 
I trust our Sicily hath many a son 
Vahant as mine. — Associates I — 'tis decreed 
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name 
The hour, the scene, the signal. 

Montalba. It should be 
In the full city, when some festival 
Hatli gathered throngs, and lulled infatuate hearts 
To brief security. Hark ! is there not 
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze"? 
We are betrayed. — Who art thou % 
VITTORIA enters. 

Procida. One alone 
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil 
That shades thy noble brow. 

(She raises her veil, the Sicilians draw back 
with respect.) 

Sicilians. Th' affianced bride 
Of our lost King! 

Procida. And more, Montalba; know 
Within this form there dwells a soul as high, 
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved, 
Or patriots on the scaffold. 

Vittoria. Valiant men ! 
I come to ask your aid. Ye see me, one 
Whose widowed youth hath all been consecrate 
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held 
In token and memorial of the dead. 
Sav is it meet that, lingering thus on earth, 
But to behold one great atonement made. 
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, 
A tyrant's will should force me to profane 
Heaven's altar with unhallowed vows — and live 
Stung by the keen unutterable scorn 
Of my own bosom, live — another's bride 1 

Sicilians. Never, oh never ! — fear not. noble lady ' 
Worthy of Conradin ! 



Vitioria. Yet hear me still. 
'tis bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears 
With his insulting eye of cold derision, 
And , could he pierce the depths where feeling works, 
Would number e'en our agonies as crimes. 
— Say, is this meet 1 

Guido. We deemed these nuptials, lady, 
Thy willing choice ; but 'tis a joy to find 
Thou art noble still. Fear not ; by all our wrongs 
This shall not.be. 

Procida. Vittoria, thou art come 
To ask our aid, but we have need of thine. 
Know, the completion of our high designs 
Requires — a festival ; and it must be 
Thy bridal ! 

Vittoria. Procida! 

Procida, Nay, start not thus. 
'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair 
With festal garlands, and to bid the song 
Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No — nor yet 
To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, 
Where death, not love, awaits him ! 

Vittoria. Can my soul 
Dissemble thus? 

Procida. We have no other means 
Of winning our great birthright back from those 
Who have usurped it, than so lulling them 
Into vain confidence, that they may deem 
All wrongs forgot ; and this may best be done 
By what I ask of thee. 

Montalha. Then will we mix 
With the flushed revelers, making their gay feast 
The harvest of the grave. 

Vittoria. A bridal day ! 
— Must it be so 1 — Then, chiefs of Sicily, 
[ bid you to my nuptials ! but be there 
With yourbright swords unsheathed, for thus alone 
My guests should be adorned. 

Procida. And let thy banquet 
Be soon announced, for there are noble men 
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase 
Reprieve with other blood. 

Vitioria. Be it then the day 
Preceding that appointed for their doom. 

Guido. My brother, thou shalt live! — Oppres- 
sion boasts 
No gift of prophecy ! — It but remains 
To name our signal, chiefs ! 

Montalba. The Vesper-bell. 

Procida. Even so, the Vesper-bell, whose deep- 
toned peal 
Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band, 
Wearing the guise of antic revelry. 
Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant. 
The halls of Eribert ; and at the hour 
Devoted to the sword's tremendo is task, 
I follow with the rest. — The Vesper-bell! 
That sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'tis come. 
The time when power is in a voice, a breath, 



To burst the spell which bound us. But the night 
Is wanitig, with her stars, which, one by one, 
Warn us to part. Friends, to your homes ! — your 

homes ? 
Thai name is yet to win. — Away, prepare 
For our next meeting in Palermo's walls. 
The Vesper-bell I Remember ! 

Sicilians. Fear us not. 
The Vesper-bell ! [Exeunt omnes 



ACT THE THIRD. 

SCENE I. APARTMENT IN A PALACE. 

ERIBERT. VITTORIA. 

Vittoria. Speak not of love — it is a word with 

deep. 
Strange magic in its melancholy sound. 
To summon up the dead ; and they should rest, 
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things 
We must throw from us, when the heart would 

gather 
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes : 
Therefore, no more of love ! — But, if to robe 
This form in bridal ornaments, to smile, 
(I can smile yet,) at tiiy gay feast, and stand 
At th' altar by thy side ; if this be deemed 
Enough, it shall be done. 

Eribert. My fortune's star 
Doth rule th' ascendant still! (^Apart.) — If not of 

love, 
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy, 

And with exulting heart 

Vittoria. There is no joy ! 
— Who shall look through the far futurity, 
And, as the shadowy visions of events 
Develope on his gaze, 'midst their dim throng, 
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, 
" This will bring happiness 1" — Who shall do this! 
— Who, thou, and I, and all ! — There's One, who 

sits 
In his own bright tranquillity enthroned, 
H!igh o'er all storms, and looking far beyond 
Their thickest clouds; but we, from whose dull 

eyes 
A grain of dust hides the great sun, e'en we 
Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seerSj 
Of future joy and grief ! 

Eribert. Thy words are strange. 
Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle 
Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace 
To thy majestic beauty. — Fair Vittoria! 

Oh ! if my cares * 

Vittfiria. I know a day shall come 
Of peace to all. Ev'n from my darkened spirit 
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised. 
Which haunts it now, and I shall the.i he dow^. 
Serenely to repose. Of this no more 
— I have a boon to ask. 



80 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Eribert. Command my power, 
And deem it thus most honoured. 

Vittoria. Have I then 
Soared such an eagle-pitch, as to command 
The mighty Eribert ? — And yet 'tis meet; 
For I betliinlt me now, I should have worn 
A croion upon this forehead. — Generous lord! 
Since thus you give me freedom, know there is 
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound, 
Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bearing 
A sense of deep repose, have lulled me oft 
To peace — which is forgetfulness : I mean 
The Vesper-bell. I pray you, let it be 
The summons to our bridal — Hear you not? 
To our fair bridal! 

Eribert. Lady, let your will 
Appoint each circumstance. I am but too blessed 
Proving my homage thus. 

Viltoria. Why, then, 'tis mine 
To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, 
And I may be content. Yet much remains 
For thought to brood on, and I would be left 
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert ! 
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now 
Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when 
I am at thy side once more, but I shall stand 
There— to the last. 

Eribert. Your smiles are troubled, lady; 
May they ere long be brighter! — Time will seem 
Slow till the Vesper-bell. 

Viltoria. 'Tis lovers' phrase 
To say — -Time lags ; and therefore meet for you : 
But with an equal pace the hours move on. 
Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, 
Pleasure or — fate. 

Eribert. Be not so full of thought 
On such a day. — Behold, the skies themselves 
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile, 
Unshadowed by a cloud. 

Vittoria. 'Tis very meet 
That Heaven (which loves the just) should wear 

a smile 
[n honour of his fortunes. — Now, my lord, 
Forgive m3 if I say, farewell, until 
'J^li' appointed hour. 

Eribert. Lady, a brief farewell. 

[Exeunt separately. 

SCENE II. — THE SEA-SHORE. 

PROCIDA. RAIMOND. 

t'rocida. And dost thou still refuse to share the 
glory • 
Of this, our daring enterprise! 

Raimond. Oh, father ! 
! too have dreamt of glory, and the word 
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, 
Making my nature sleepless. — But the deeds 
Whereby 'twas won, tlie high exploits, whose tale 



Bids the heart burn, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requirest. 

Procida. Every deed 
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim 
The Freedom of our country; and the sword 
Alike is honoured in the patriot's hand, 
Searching, 'midst warrior-hosts, the heart which 

gave 
Oppression birth; or flashing through the gloom 
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, 
At dead of night. 

Raimond {turning away). Tlrere is no path but 
one 
For noble natures 

Procida. Wouldst thou ask the man 
Who to the earth hath dashed a nation's chains. 
Rent as with Heaven's own lightning, by what 

means 
The glorious end was woni — Go, swell th' ac- 
claim ! 
Bid the deliverer hail ! and if his path 
To that most bright and sovereign destiny 
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it called 
A stern necessity, and not a crime! 

Raimond. Father! my soul yet kindles at the 
thought 
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learned 
Even from thy voice. — The high remembrances 
Of other days are stirring in the heart 
Where thou didst plant them; and they speak ol 

men 
Wlio needed no vain sophistry to gild 
Acts, that would bear Heaven's hght. — And such 

be mine ! 
Oh, father ! is it yet too late to draw 
The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts 
On our most righteous cause 1 

Procida. What wouldst thou do 7 
Raimond. I would go forth, and rouse th' in- 
dignant land 
To generous combat. Why should Freedom strike 
Mantled with darkness 1 — Is there not more 

strength 
E'en in the waving of her single arm 
Than hosts can wield against her? — I would rouse 
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere the stormy field of fight ! 
Procida. Ay ! and give time and warning to the 
foe 
To gather all his might ! — It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun. 
When rings the Vesper-bell ; and, long before 
To morrow's sun hath reached i' th' noonday hea- 
ven 

His throne of l>urning glory, every sound 
Of the Provenfal tongue within our walls, 
As by one thunderstroke— (you are pak my 

son) — 
Shall be for ever silenced. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



81 



Raimond. What! such sounds 
As falter on the lip of infancy 
In its imperfect utterance 1 or are breathed 
By the fond mother, as she lulls her babel 
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air 
Poured by the timid maid? — Must all alike 
Be stilled in death ; and wouldst thou tell my 

heart 
There is no crime in this? 

Procida. Since thou dost feel 
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 

Raimond. Speak! Oh speak! 

Procida. How would these rescued thousands 
bless thy name, 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Raimond. Father ! — I can bear — 
Ay, proudly woo — the keenest questioning 
Of thy soul gifted eye; which almost seems 
To claim a part of Heaven's dread royalty, 
— The power that searches thought ! 

Procida {after a pause). Thou hast a brow 
Clear as the day — and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! 
Whether it be that I have learned distrust 
From a long look through man's deep-folded heart ; 
Whether my paths have been so seldom crossed 
By honour and fair mercy, that they seem 
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus 
My unaccustomed gaze ; — howe'er it be — 
I doubt thee ! — See thou waver not — take heed ! 
Time lifts the veil from all things ! 

[Exit Procida. 

Raimond. And 'tis thus 
Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes 
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith 
We clothed our idols, drop ! — Oh 1 bitter day, 
When, at the crushing of our glorious world, 
We start, and find men tlius ! — Yet be it so ! 
Is not my soul still powerful, in itself 
To realize its dreams'! — Ay, shrinking not 
From the pure eye of Heaven, my brow may well 
Undaunted meet my father's. — But, away ! 
Ttiou shalt be saved, sweet Constance ! — Love is 

yet 
Mightier than vengeance. [Exit Raimond. 

SCENE III. — GARDENS OP A PALACE. 
CONSTANCE, alone. 
Constance. There was a time when my thoughts 
wandered not 
Beyond these fairy scenes I when, but to catch 
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze 
From the rich-flowering citrons, or to rest, 
Dreaniing of some wild legend, in the shade 
Of the dark laurel-foliage, was enough 
Of happiness. — How have these calm delights 
Fled from before one passion, as the dews. 
The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled 
Py the T;reat sun ! 



{Raimond enters.) 
Raimond ! oh ! now thou 'rt come, 
I read it in thy look, to say farewell 
For the last time — the last ! 

Raimond. No, best beloved ! 
I come to tell thee there is now no power 
To part us — but in death. 

Constance. I have dreamt of joy, 
But never aught like this. — Speak yet again ! 
Say, we shall part no more ! 

Raimond. No more, if love 
Can strive with darker spirits, and he is strong 
In his immortal nature ! all is changed 
Since last we met. My father — keep the tale 
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, 
From Eribert — my father is returned : 
I leave thee not. 

Constance. Thy father ! blessed sound ! 
Good angels be his guard ! — Oh ! if he knew 
How my soul chngs to thine, he could not hate 
Even a Provencal maid ! — Thy father ! — now 
Thy soul will be at peace, and 1 shall see 
The sunny happiness of earlier days 
Look from thy brow once more ! — But how is this"? 
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine; 
And in thy look is that which ill befits 
A tale of joy. 

Raimond. A dream is on my soul. 
I see a slumberer, crowned with flowers, and smil- 
ing 
As in delighted visions, on the brink 
Of a dread chasm ; and this strange phantasy 
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, 
I can not but be sad. 

Constance. Why, let me sing 
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, 
And this will banish it. 

Raimond. It may not be. 
Oh ! gentle Constance, go not forth to-day: 
Such dreams are ominous. 

Constance. Have you then forgot 
My brother's nuptial feast 1 — I must be one 
Of the gay train attending to the shrine 
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy 
Will print earth lightly now. — What fear'st thou, 

lovel 
Look all around ! these blue transparent skies, 
And sun-beams pouring a more buoyant !.fe 
Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly 

chase 
All thought of evil. — Why, the very air 
Breathes of delight! — Through all its glowing 

realms 
Doth music blend with fragrance, and e'en here 
The city's voice of jubilee is heard. 
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sonnd» 
Of human joy! 

Raipiond. There lie far deeper things, - 
Things, that may darken thought for life, beneath 



92 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



That city's festive semblance.— I have passed 
Through the glad multitudes, and I have marked 
A stern intelligence in meeting eyes, 
Which deemed their flash unnoticed, and a quick, 
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe 
Its mien with carelessness ; and, now and then, 
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand 
Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out 
Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread 
A mantling Hush of revelry, which may hide 
Much from unpractised eyes ; but lighter signs 
Have been prophetic oft. 

Constance. I tremble ! — Raimond ! 
What may these things portend'? 

Raimond. It was a day 
Of festival, like this; the city sent 
Up through her sunny firmament a voice 
Joyous as now ; when, scarcely heralded 
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths 
The ^earthquake burst; and the wide splendid 

scene 
Became one chaos of all fearful things. 
Till the brain whirled, partaking the sick motion 
Of rocking palaces. 

Constance. And then didst thou, 
My noble Raimond ! through the dreadful paths 
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, 
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment's work, had 

given 
One burial unto thousands, rush to save 
Thy trembling Constance ! she who lives to bless 
Thy generous love, that still the breath of Heaven 
Wafts gladness to her soul ! 

Raimond. Heaven !- -Heaven is just! 
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one, still. 
Trust none beside. — Oh ! the omnipotent skies 
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man 
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares, 
Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad. 
Masked as a reveller. Constance ! oh ! by all 
Our tried affection, all the vows which bind 
Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers. 
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell 
Doth sound for vesper-prayer ! 

Constance. And know'st thou not 
'Twill be the bridal hour? 

Raimond. It will not, love ! 
That hour will bring no bridal ! — Nought of this 
To human ear ; but speed thou hither, fly, 
When evening brings that signal. — Dost thou 

heed 1 
This is no meeting, by a lover sought 
To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves 
And stars attest his vows ; deem thou not so. 
Therefore denying it ! — I tell thee, Constance ! 
if thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair 
As falls on man beholding all he loves 
Perish before him, while his strength can but 
Strive, with his agony — thou 'It meet me then"? 



Look on me, love ! — I am not oft so moved 
Thou 'It meet me? 

Constance. Oh! what mean thy words? — If 
then 
My steps are free, — I will. Be thou but calm. 

Raimond. Be calm ! — there is a cold and sullen 
calm, 
And, were my wild fears made realities. 
It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense, 
This conflict of all terrible phantasies. 
There is no calm. — Yet fear thou not, dear love ! 
I will watch o'er thee still. And now, farewell 
Until that hour ! 

Constance. My Raimond, fare thee well. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. ROOM IN THE CITADEL OP PALERMO. 

ALBERTI. DE COUCL 

De Couci. Said'st thou this night? 

Alberti. This very night — and lo ! 
E'en now the sun declines. 

De Couci. What ! are they armed ? 

Alberti. All armed and strong in vengeance 
and despair. 

De Couci. Doubtful and strange the tale ! Why 
was not this 
Revealed before ? 

Alberti. Mistrust me not, my lord! 
That stern and jealous Procida hath kept 
O'er all my steps, (as though he did suspect 
The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought 
To read in mine,) a watch so vigilant, 
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this 
Alone I mingled with his bands, to learn 
Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st 

my faith 
To Anjou's house full well. 

De Couci. How may we now 
Avert the gathering storm? — The viceroy holds 
His bridal feast, and all is revelry. 
— 'Twas a true-boding heavine.ss of heart 
Which kept me from these nuptials. 

Alberti. Thou thyself 
Mayst yet escape, and, haply of thy bands 
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeai.£e 
Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream 
Of saving Eribert. E'en shouldst thou rush 
Before him with the tidings, in his pride 
And confidence of soul, he would but laugh 
Thy tale to scorn. 

De Couci. He must not die unwarned. 
Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, 
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake 
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, 
And shalt not pass unguerdoned, should I live 
Through the deep horrors of th' approaching night. 

Alberti. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Aujoa 
Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti's 

[Exit Alberti 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



83 



Dc Couci. Till- grovelling slave ! — And yel he 
spokd too true! 
For Eribert, in blind elated joy, 
Will scorn the warning voice. — The day wanes 

fast, 
And through the city, recklessly dispersed, 
Unarmed and unprepared, my soldiers revel, 
E'en on the brink of fate. — I must away. 

[Exit De Couci. 

SCENE V. A BANaUETING HALL. 

PROVENCAL NOBLES assembled. 

First Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting ! — 
Who hath seen 
The viceroy's bride 7 

Second Noble. 1 saw her, as she passed 
The gazing throngs assembled in the city. 
'Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, 
Her castle's wood-girt solitude. 'Twill gall 
These proud Sicilians, that her wide domains 
Should be the conqueror's guerdon. 

I^hird Noble. 'Twas their boast 
With what fond faith she worshipped still the 

name 
Of the boy, Conradin. How will the slaves 
Brook this new triumph of their lords 7 

Second Noble. In sooth 
It stings them to the quick. In the full streets 
They mix with our Proven9als, and assume 
A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. 
'Twere worth a thousand festivals, to see 
With what a bitter and unnatural effort 
They strive to smile! 

First Noble. Is this Vittoria fair 

Second Noble. Of a most noble mien ; but yet 
her beauty 
Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, 
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, 
From which thou 'It shrink, as I did. 

First Noble. Hush! they come. 

Enter ERIBERT, VITTORIA, CONSTANCE, and others. 

Eribert. Welcome, my noble friends ! — there 
must not lower 
One clouded brow to-day in Sicily! 
Behold my bride ! 

Nobles. Receive our homage, lady! 

Vittoria. I bid all welcome. May the feast we 
offer 
Prove worthy of such guests ! 

Eribert. Look on her, friends 
And say, if that majestic brow is not 
Meet for a diadem "? 

Vittoria. 'Tis well, my lord! 
When memory's pictures fade, 'tis kindly done 
To brighten their dimmed hues ! 

First Noble (apart). Marked you her glance? 



Second Noble (apart). What eloquent scorn 
was there ! yet he, th' elate 
Of heart, perceives it not. 

Eribert. N )w to the feast ! 
Constance, you look not joyous. 1 have said 
That all should smile to-day. 

Constance. Forgive me, brother! 
The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp 
At times oppresses it. 

Eribert. Why, how is this ? 

Constance. Voices of wo, and prayers of agony 
Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds 
There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, 
Since 'tis your wish. — In truth I should have been 
A village-maid! 

Eribert. But. being as you are, 
Not thus ignobly free, command your looks 
(They may be taught obedience) to reflect 
The aspect of the time. 

Vittoria. And know, fair maid! 
That if in this unskilled, you stand alone 
Amidst our court of pleasure. 

Eribert. To the feast! 
Now let the red wine foam ! — There should be 

mirth » . 

When conquerors revel ! — Lords of this fair isle 1 
Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, and 

pledge 
The present and the future! for they both 
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bridal 

Vittoria. Yes, Eribert! — thy prophecies of joy 
Have taught e'en me to smile. 

Eribert. 'Tis well. To-day 
I have won a fair and almost royal bride ; 
To-morrow — let the bright sun speed his course, 
To waft me happiness ! — ray proudest foes 
Must die — and then my slumber shall be laid 
On rose-leaves, with no envious fold, to mar 
The luxury of its visions! — Fair Vittoria, 
Your looks are troubled ! 

Vittoria. It is strange, but oft, 
'Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul 
Death comes, with some dull image ! as you spoko 
Of those whose blood is claimed, I thought for 

them 
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night 
E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long . 
How blessed were the stroke which makes theru 

things 
Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, 
There is, at least, no bondage ! — But should we 
From such a scene as this, where all earth's ioys 
Contend for mastery, and the very sense 
Of life is rapture ; should we pass, I say. 
At once from such excitements to the void 
And silent gloom of that which doth await us 
— Were it not dreadful 1 

Eribert. Banish such dark thoughts I 
They ill beseem the hour. 



S4 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Vittoria. There is no hour 
Of this mysterious world, in joy or wo, 
But they beseem it well ! — Why, what a slight. 
Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which severs 
Being from death ! — And who can tell how near 
Its misty brink he stands 7 

First Noble (^aside.) What mean her words 1 

Second Noble. There's some dark mystery here. 

Eribert. No more of this ! 

Pour the bright juice which Etna's glowing vines 

Yield to the conquerors ! And let music's voice 

Dispel these ominous dreams ! — Wake, harp and 

song! 
Swell out your triumph! 

A MESSENGER enters, bearing a letter. 
Messenger. Pardon, my good lord ! 

But this demands 

Eribert. What means thy breathless haste 1 
And that ill-boding mien % — Away ! such looks 
Befit not hours like these. 

Messenger. The Lord de Couci 
Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught with tidings 
Of life and death. 

Vitf.oria {hurriedly). Is this a time for aught 
But revelry"? — My lord, these dull intrusions 
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene ! 
Eribert {to the Messenger). Hence ! tell the 
Lord de Couci we will talk 
Of life and death to-morrow. 

{E.vit Messenger. 
Let there be 
Around me none but joyous looks to-day. 
And strains whose very eclioes wake to mirth ! 
{A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound 
of 'music, disguised as shepherds, baccha- 
nals, (f-C. 

Eribert. What forms are these 7 — What means 

this antic triumph 1 
Vittoria. 'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals 
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not 
Hear their wild music 1 Our Sicilian vales 
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, 
To which the glad heart bounds. — Breathe ye some 

strain 
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily ! 

{One of the Masquers sings.) 
The festal eve, o'er earth and sky. 
In her sunset robe, looks bright. 
And the purple hills of Sicily, 

With their vineyards, laugh in light; 
From the marble cities of her plains 

Glad voices mingling swell ; 
- But with yet more loud and lofty strains, 
They shall hail the "Vesper-bell! 

Uh ! sweet itss tones, when the summer breeze 

Their cadence wafts afar. 
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas. 

As they gleam to the 'irst pale star 



The shepherd greets them on his height, 

The hermit in his cell ; 
— But a deeper power shall breathe, to-night, 
In the sound of the Vesper-bell ! 

[ The bell rings. 
Eribert. —It is the hour ! — Hark, hark ! — my 
bride, our summons ! 
The altar is prepared and crowned with flowers 
That wait— 

Vittoria. The victim! 

{A tumult heard without.) 

PROCIDA and MONTALBA enter, with others, armed. 

Procida. Strike! the hour is come ! 
Vittoria. Welcome, avengers, welcome! Now 
be strong ! 

( The conspirators throw off their disguise, 
and rush, with their swords drawn, upon 
the Provencals. Eribert is wounded, and 
falls, 
Procida. Now hath fate reached thee in thy 
mid career. 
Thou reveller in a nation's agonies 

{The Provencals are driven off, and pursued 
by the Sicilians.) 
Constance {supporting Eribert). My brother ! 

oh ! my brother ! 
Eribert. Have I stood 
A leader in the battle-fields of kings, 
To perish thus at last ] — Ay, by these pangs. 
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep 
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins. 
This should be — death ! — In sooth a dull exchange 
For the gay bridal feast ! 

Voices {without). Remember Conradin ! — spare 

none, spare none ! 
Vittoria {throwing off her bridal wreath and 
ornaments). This is proud freedom. Now 
my soul may cast, 
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling 
To earth for ever ! — And it is such joy. 
As if a captive, from his dull, cold cell, 
Might soar at once on chartered vvi);g to rantre 
The realms of starred infinity ! — Away ! 
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath ! The hour 
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain 
Is come ; and I may give my bursting heart 
Full and indignant scope. — Now, Eribert ! 
Believe in retribution ! What, proud man ! 
Prince, ruler, conqueror ! didst thou deem Heaven 

slept 1 

" Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, 
" Ranging the world, to note e'en purposed crime 
" In burning characters, had laid aside 
Their everlasting attributes for thee? 
— Oh! blind security ! — He, in whose dread har.a 
The hghtnings vibrate, holds them back, until 
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reached 
His pyramid-height of power ; that so his tu!l 



May, with more fearful oracles, make pale 
Man's crowned oppressors ! 

Constance. Oh ! reproach him not ! 
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink 
Of that dim world where passion nmy not enter. 
Leave hiin in peace. 

Voices {without). Anjou, Anjou ! — De Couci to 
the rescue ! 

Eribert {half-raising himself ). My brave Pro- 
ven9als ! do ye combat still 1 
And I, your chief, am here ! — Now, now I feel 
That death indeed is bitter 

Vittoria. Fare thee well ! 
Thine eyes so oft, with their insulting smile, 
Have looked on man's last pangs, thou shouldst, 

by this. 
Be perfect how to die ! [Exit Vittoria. 

RAIMOND enters. 

Raimond. Away, my Constance! 
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands 
Are scattered far and wide. A little while 
And thou shalt be in safety. Knowestthou not 
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man, 
Anselmo 7 He whose hermitage is reared 
'Mid some old temple's ruins! — Round the spot 
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, 
'Tis hallowed as a sanctuar}', wherein 
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm 
Have spent its fury. Haste! 

Constance. I will not fly ! 
While in his heart there is one throb of life, 
One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave 
The brother of my youth to perish thus, 
Without one kindly bosom to sustain 
His dying head. 

Eribert. The clouds are darkening round. 
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear 
That summon me — to what? — But I have been 
Used to command ! — Away ! I will not die 
But on the field — [He dies. 

Constance {kneeling by hini). Oh Heaven ! be 
merciful, 
As thou art just ! — for he is now where nought 
But mercy can avail him ! — It is past ! 

GUIDO enters, with his sword drawn. 
Guido {to Raimond). I've sought thee long — 
Why art thou lingering here? 
Haste, follow me ! — Suspicion with thy name 
loins that word — Traitor! 

Raimond. Traitor ! G uido ? 

Guido. Yes! 
Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, 
After vain conflict with a people's wrath, 
De Couci hath escaped 7 — And there are those 
Who murmur that from thee the warning came 
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e'en 

yet 
Id the red current of Provencal blood 
10 



That doubt may be elfaced. Draw thy g3od 

sword. 
And follow me ! 

Raimond. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido* 
'Tis come to this ! — Away! mistrust me still. 
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. 
Thou knowest me not ! 

Guido. Raimond di Procida ! 
If thou art he whom once I deemed so noble — 
Call me thy friend no more ! [Exit Guido. 

Raimond {after a pause). Rise, dearest, rise ! 
Thy duty's task hath nobly been fulfilled, 
E'en in the face of death: but all is o'er. 
And this is now no place where nature's tears 
In quiet sanctity may freely flow. 
— Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds 
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar 
Of fast-advancing billows; and for thee 
1 shame not thus to tremble. — Speed, oh, speed ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT THE FOURTH. 

SCENE I. — A STREET IN PALERMO. 

PROCroA enters. 

Procida,. How strange and deep a stillness loads 
the air. 
As with the power of midnight ! — Ay, where death 
Hath passed, there should be silence. — But this 

hush 
Of nature's heart, this breathlessness of all things, 
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, 
With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds 
Brooding in sullen masses, o'er my spirit 
Weighs like an omen ! — "Wherefore should this 

be7 
Is not our task achieved, the mighty work 
Of our deliverance 7 — Yes ; I should be joyous : 
But this our feeble nature, with its quick 
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down 
Th' ascending soul. — And I have feanal bodings 
That treachery lurks amongst us. — Raimond! 

Raimond ! 
Oh ! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its gurb ! 
It can not be ! 

MONTALBA, GUIDO, and other Sicilians, enter. 

Procida. Welcome ! we meet in joy ! 
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming 
The kingly port of freemen ! Who shall dare, 
After this proof of slavery's dread recoil. 
To weave us chains again 7— Ye have done well 

Montalba. We have done woll. There need no 
choral song, 
No shouting multitudes to blazon forth 
Our stern exploits. — The silence of our foes 
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to res* 



86 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task 
Is still hut half achieved, since, with his hands, 
De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless, leads 
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes 
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts, 
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required, 
To make the mighty sacrifice complete. — 
Where is thy son 7 

Procida. I know not. Once last night 
He crossed my path, and with one stroke beat down 
A sword just raised to smite me, and restored 
My own, which in that deadly strife had been 
Wrenched from my grasp: but when I would 

have pressed him 
To my exulting bosom, he drew back. 
And with a sad, and yet a scornful, smile, 
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour 
I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask 1 

Montalba. It matters not. We have deeper 
things to speak of — 
Knowest thou that we have traitors in our coun- 
cils 1 

Procida. I know some voice in secret must have 
warned 
De Couci ; or his scattered bands had ne'er 
So soon been marshalled, and in close array 
Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard 

aught 
That may develope this 1 

Montalba. The guards we set 
To watch the city-gates have seized, this morn, 
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step 
Betrayed his guilty purpose. Mark ! he bore 
(Amidst the tumult deeming that his flight 
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him, 
The fugitive Proven9al. Read and judge ! 

Procida. Where is this messenger 1 

Montalba. Where should he be"! — 
They slew him in their wrath. 

Procida. Unwisely done ! 
Give me the scrolls. [He reads. 

Now, if there be such things 
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay 
The pang which gives release; if there be power 
_n execration, to call down the fires 
Of yon avenging Heaven, whose rapid shafts 
But for such guilt were aimless ; be they heaped 
I Tpon the traitor's head ! — Scorn make his name 
Her mark for ever ! 

Montalba. In our passionate blindness, 
W . send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil 
Oft on ourselves 

Procida, Whate'er fate hath of ruin 
je'all on his hou.se ! — What ! to resign again 
'I'hat freedom for whose sake our souls have now 
Engrained themselves in blood! — Why, who is he 
That hath devised this treachery 1 — To the scroll 
Why fixed he not his name, so stamping it 
With an immortal infamy, whose brand 



Might warn men from him 1 — Who should be to 

vile"? 
Alberti? — In his eye is that which ever 
Shrinks from encountering mine! — But no! hia 



Is of the noblest — Oh ! he could not shame 
That high descent !— Urbino 7— Conti?— No! 
They too are deeply pledged. — There 's one name 

more! 
— I can not utter it ! — Now shall I read 
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot 
From man's high mien its native royalty. 
And seal his noble forehead with the impress 
Of its own vile imaginings 1 — Speak your thoughts 
Montalba! Guide! — Who should this man be'? 

Montcdba. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheatncd 
last night 
His sword to aid our foes, and turned its edge 
Against his country's chiefs — He that did this, 
May well be deemed for guiltier treason ripe. 

Procida. And who is hel 

Montalba. Nay, ask thy son. 

Procida. My son ! 
What should he know of such a recreant heart 1 
Speak, Guido ! thou 'rt his friend ! 

Guido. I would not wear 
The brand of such a name ! 

Procida. How ! what means this? 
A flash of light breaks m upon my soul ! 
Is it to blast me 1 — Yet the fearful doubt 
Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts be- 
fore, 
And been flung from them. — Silence! — Speak not 

yet! 
I would be calm, and meet the thunder-burst • 
With a strong heart. [A pause 

Now, what have I to hear'' 
Your tidings 1 

Guido. Briefly, 't was your son did thus ; 
He hath disgraced your name. 

Procida. My son did thus ! 
Are thy words oracles, that I should search 
Their hidden meaning outi — What did my son 1 
I have forgot the tale. — Repeat it, quick ! 

Guido. 'Twill burst upon thee all too soon. 
While we 
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites 
Of retribution ; while we bathed the earth 
In red libations, which will consecrate 
The soil they mingled with to freedom's step 
Through the long march of ages; 'twas his task 
To shield from danger a Proven9al maid. 
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung 
Our hearts to madness. 

Montalba. What ! should she be spared 
To keep that name from perishing on earth? 
— I crossed them in their path, and raised my sword 
To smite her in her champioi 's arms —We 
fought — 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



9T 



riiH hov disarmed me! — And I live to tell 
My shame, and wreak my vengeance ! 

Guido. Who but he 
Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt 
These scrolls reveal? — Hath not the traitor still 
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence, 
To win us from our purpose! — All things seem 
Leagued to unmask him. 

Montalba. Know you not there came 
E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci, 
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings 
Of all our purposed deeds? — And have we not 
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves 
The sister of that tyrant? 

Procida. There was one 
Who mourned for being childless I — Let him now 
Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join 
The revelry ! 

Montalba (apart). You shall be childless too ! 

Procida. Was 't you, Montalba? — Now rejoice! 
I say. 
There is no name so near you that its stains 
Should call the fevered and indignant blood 
To your dark cheek !- But I will dash to earth 
The weight that presses on my heart, and then 
Be glad as tliou art. 

Montalba. What means this, my lord ? 
Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien? 

Procida. Why, should not all be glad who have 
no sons 
To tarnish their bright name 1 

Montalba. I am not used 
To bear with mockery. 

Procida. Friend ! By yon high Heaven, 
I mock thee not ! — 'tis a proud fate, to live 
Alone and unallied. — Why, what's alone? 
A word whose sense is— /ree .' — Ay, free from all 
The venomed stings implanted in the heart 
By those it loves. — Oh ! 1 could laugh to think 
O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls, 
When the word comes — " A son is born !" — A son! 
— They should say thus — " tie that shall knit your 

brow 
To furrows, not of years ; and bid your eye 
Gluail its proud glance; to tell the earth its 

shame, — 
[s born, and so, rejoice!'' — Then might we feast. 
And know the cause : — Were it not excellent ? 

Montalba. This is all idle. There are deeds to 
do; 
Arouse thee, Procida ! 

Procida. Why, am I not 
Calm as immortal Justice? — She can strike, i 

And yet be passionless — and thus will I. \ 

I know thy meaning. — Deeds to do I — 'tis well, j 
They shall be done ere thought on. — Go ye forth; 
There is a youth who calls himself my son, 
His name is — Raimond — in his eye is light 
That shows like truth — but be not ye deceived ' ' 



Bear him in chains before us. We will sit 
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see 
The strength which girds our nature. — Will not 

this 
Be glorious, brave Montalba? — Linger not, 
Ye tardy messengers! for there are things 
Which ask the speed of storms. 

[Exeunt Guido and others. 
Is not this well ? 
Montalba. 'Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this 
proud height, 
(Aside) And then — be desolate Hke me ! — my woea 
Will at the thought grow light. 
Procida. What now remains 
To be prepared? — There should be solemn pomp 
To grace a day like this. — Ay, breaking hearts 
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs 
From cold inquiring eyes ; and it must be 
Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not 
Explore what lies beneath. 

[Exit Procida. 
Montalba. Now this is well ! 
— I hate this Procida; for he hath won 
In all our councils that ascendancy 
And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should have 

been 
Mine by a thousand claims. — Had he the strength 
Of -wrongs like mine ? — No ! for that name — hia 

country — 
He strikes — my vengeance hath a deeper fount : 
But there 's dark joy in this ! — And fate liath barred 
My soul from every other. 

[Exit Montalba 

SCENE II. — A HERMITAGE, SURROUNDED BY THE 
RUINS OF AN ANCIENT TEMPLE. 

CONSTANCE. ANSELMO. 

Constance. 'Tis strange he comes not! — la not 
this the still 
And sultry hour of noon? — He should have been 
Here by the day-break. — Was there not a voice " 
— "No ! 'tis the shrill Cicada, with glad life 
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports 
Amidst them, in the sun. — Hark ! yet again!'* 
No ! no ! — Forgive me, father ! that I bring 
Earth's restless griefs and passions to disturb 
The stillness of thy holy solitude; 
My heart is full of care. 

Anselmo. There is no place 
So hallowed, as to be unvisited 
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go. 
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes 
Lonely and still ; where he that made our heart* 
Will speak to them in whisj)ers? I have known 
Affliction too, my daughter. 

Constance. Hark ! his step ! 
I know it well — he comes — my Raimond, wrf 
come ' 



b'8 



MRS, HEMANS' WORKS. 



VITrofviA enters, CONSTANCE shrinks back on perceiv- 
ing her. 

Oh Heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale. 

Vittoria (not observing her). There is a cloud 
of horror on my soul ; 
And on thy words. Ansslmo, peace doth wait, 
Even as an echo, following the sweet close 
Of some divine and solemn harmony ; 
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me 
Of holy things, and names, in whose deep sound 
[s power to bid the tempests of the heart 
Sink, like a storm rebuked. 

Anselmo. What recent grief 
Darkens thy spirit thus 1 

Vittoria. I said not grief. 
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not 
That which it hath been. In the flowers which 

wreathe 
Its mantling cup there is a scent unknown, 
Fraught with some strange delirium. All things 

now 
Have changed their ri.iture; still, I say, rejoice! 
Tnere is a cause, Anselmo! — We are free, 
Free and avenged ! — Yet on my soul there hangs 
A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom 
Of midnight phantasies. — Ay, for this, too, 
There is a cause. 

Anselmo. How say'st thou, we are free ? 
There may have raged, within Palermo's walls, 
Some brief wild tumult, but too well I know 
They call the stranger, lord. 

Vittoria. Who calls the dead 
Cuiiqueror or lord"? — Hush ! breathe it not aloud, 
The wild winds must not hear it ! — Yet, again, 
r tell thee, we are free ! 

Anselmo. Thine eye hath looked 
On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang 
O'er its dark orb. — Speak! I adjure thee, say, 
How hath this work been wrought? 

Vittoria. Peace! ask me not! 
Why shonldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood 
Back on its fount 7 — We can not wake them now ! 
The storm is in my soul, but they are all 
At rest ! — Ay, sweetly may the slaughtered babe 
['y its dead mother sleep; and warlike men 
Who 'midst the slain have slumbered oft before, 
Making the shield their pillow, may repose 
Well, now their toils are done. — Is 't not enough 1 

Constance. Merciful Heaven ! have such things 
been? And yet 
There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky ! 
--I am an outcast now. 

Anselmo. O Thou, whose ways 
(Houds mantle fearfully; of all the blind, 
But terrible, ministers that work thy wrath, 
f [ow much is man the fiercest! — Others know 
Their limits — Yes! the earthquakes, and the 

storms, 
And the volcanoes! — He alone o'erleaps 



The bounds of retribution ! — Couldst ti.ou gaze, 
Vittoria ! with thy woman's heart and eye> 
On such dread scenes unmoved? 

Vittoria. Was it for me 
To stay th' avenging sword? — No, though it 

pierced 
My very soul? — "Hark, hark, what thrilling 

shrieks 
Ring through the air around me! — Can"t thou not 
Bid them be hushed ? — Oh ! look not on me thus ! 

Anselmo. Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness 
to the looks 
Which are but sad!" — Have all then perished? 

all? 
Was there no mercy 

Vittoria. Mercy ! it hath been 
A word forbidden as th' unhallowed names 
Of evil powers. — Yet one there was who dared 
To own the guilt of pity, and to aid 
The victims ! but in vain. — Of him no more 1 
He is a traitor, and a traitor's death 
Will be his meed. 

Constance {coming forward). Oh Heaven ! — 
his name, his name! 
Is it — it can not be ! 

Vittoria {starting). Thou here, pale girl ! 
I deemed thee with the dead ! — How hast thou 

'scaped 
The snare ! — Who saved thee, last of all thy racD 1 
Was it not he of , whom I spake e'en now, 
Raimond di Procida? 

Constance. It is enough. 
Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink ! 
Must he too die? 

Vittoria. Is it ev'n so? — Why then. 
Live on — thou hast the arrow at thy heart ! 
"Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes," 
I mean not to betray thee. Thou may'st live! 
Why should death bring thee his oblivious balnrtV 
He visits but the happy. — Didst thou ask 
If Raimond too must die ? — It is as sure 
As that his blood is on thij head, for thou 
Didst win him to this treason. 

Constance. " When did man 
Call mercy, treason ? — Take my life, but save 
My noble Raimond! 

Vittoria. Maiden !" he must die. 
E'en now the youth before his judges stands. 
And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, 
Are as the rock is to the murmured sigh 
Of summer-waves ; ay, though a father sit 
On their tribuiial. Bend thou not to me. 
What wouldst thou? 

Constance. Mercy! — Oh! wert thou to plead 
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved 1 
If thou hast ever loved — 

Vittoria. If I have loved? 

It is that love forbids me to relent; 

I am what it hath made me. — O'er my soul 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



89 



Ligntuing hath passed, and seared it. Could I 

weep, 
i then might pity — but it will not be. 

Constance. Oh! thou wilt yet relent, for wo- 
man's heart 
W as formed to suffer and to melt. 

Vittoria. Away! 
Why should I pity thee'? — Thou wilt but prove 
What I have known before — and yet I live! 
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne — 
The sick impatient yearning of the heart 
For that which is not ; and the weary sense 
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been 
Circled b}' death ; yes, all things may be borne ! 
All, save remorse.— »But I will not bow down 
My spirit to that dark power: — there was no 

guilt 1 
Anselmo ! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt "] 
Anselmo. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience 
quicken thought, 
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze 
Keen lightning to a look. 

Vittoria. Leave me in peace! 
[s 't not enough that I should have a sense 
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, 
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me 
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words. 
Old man, should gall me too'? — Must all conspire 
Against me'? — Oh! thou beautiful spirit ! wont 
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love. 
Where a.Tt thou vanished"? — Was it not the thought 
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task. 
And wilt thou now forsake me 1 — I must seek 
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, 
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths ; 
— Here I but meet despair ! [Exit Vittoria. 

Anslemo {to Constance). Despair not thou. 
My daughter ! — he that purifies the heart 
With grief, will lend it strength. 

Constance (endeavouring to rouse herself). Did 
she not say 
That some one was to die'? 

Anselmo. I tell thee not 
Thy pangs are vain — for nature will have way. 
Earth must have tears ; yet in a heart like thine. 
Faith may not yield its place. 

Constance. Have I not heard 
Some fearful tale? — Who said, that there should 

rest 
Blood on my souH — "What blood'? — I never bore 
Hatred, kind father, unto aught that breathes ; 
Raimond doth know it well. — Raimond ! — High 

Heaven, 
ft bursts upon me now! — and he must die ! 
For my sake — e'en for mine ! 

Anselmo. Her words were strange, 
And her proud mind seemed half to frenzy 

wrought — 
— Perchance this may not be ! 
H 10* 



Constance. It must not be. 
Why do I linger here? [She rises to depart. 

Anselmo. Where wouldst thou go? 

Constance. To give their stern and unrelenting 
hearts 
A victim in his stead. 

Anselmo. Stay ! wouldst thou rush 
On certain Jeath? 

Constance. I may not falter now. 

Is not the life of woman all bound up 
In her affections?^ — What hath she to do 
In this bleak world alone? — It may be well 
For man on his triumphal course to move, 
Unc umbered by soft bonds ; but we were born 
For love and grief 

Anselmo. Thou fair and gentle thing. 
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak 
Of tenderness or homage ! how shouldst thou 
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, 
Or face the king of terrors ? 

Constance. There is strength 
Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck 
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced 
Its fragile dwelling. — Must not earth be rent 
Before her gems are found ? — Oh ! now I feel 
Worthy the generous love which hath not shunned 
To look on death for me ! — My heart hath given 
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith 
As high in its devotion. 

\Exit Constance, 

Anselmo. She is gone ! 
Is it to perish ? — God of mercy ! lend 
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save 
This pure and lofty creature!^ — I will follow — 
But her young footstep and heroic heart 
Will bear her to destruction faster far 
Than I can track her path. 

[Exit Anselmo, 

SCENE in. — HALL OP A PUBLTC BUILDING. 

PROCIDA, MONTALBA, GUIDO, and others, seated as on 
a Tribunal. 

Procida. The morn lowered darkly, but the sun 
hath now, 
With fierce and angry splendour, through the 

clouds 
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold 
This, our high triumph, — Lead the prisoner in. 
{Raimond is brought in Jettered and guarded.") 
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here ! 
— Is this man guilty? — Look on him, Montalbal 
Montalba. Be firm. Should justice falter at a 

look? 
Procida. No, thou say'st well. Her eyes ar« 
filleted. 
Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself " 
— But no ! I will not breathe a traitor's name- 
Speak ! thou art arraigned of treason, 
Rainiona. I arraign 



90 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, 
In the bright face of Heaven ; and your own hearts 
Give echo to the charge. Your very looks 
Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, 
With a perturbed and haggard wildness, back 
From the too-searching light. — Why, what hath 

wrought 
This change on noble brows 1 — There is a voice, 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your hands have coldly shed! — Ye are of those 
From whom just men recoil, with curdhng veins, 
All thrilled by life's abhorrent consciousness, 
And sensitive feeling of a murderer's presence. 
— Away! come down from your tribunal-seat, 
Put off your robes of state, and let your mien 
Be pale and humbled ; for ye bear about you 
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at. 
More than the pestilence. — That I should live 
To sec my father shrink ! 

Procida. Montalba, speak ! 

There 's something chokes my voice — but fear me 

not. 

Montalba. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, 

Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear ; 

Most eloquent youth ! What answer canst thou 

make 
To this our charge oi treason 1 

Ralmond. I will plead 
That cause before a mightier judgment-throne, 
Where mercy is not guilt. But here, I feel 
Too buoyantly the glory and the joy 
Of my free spirit's whiteness ; for e'en now 
Th' embodied hideousness of crime doth seem 
Before me glaring out. — Why, I saw thee, 
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast. 
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heavings. 
— And thou -thy sword — Oh, valiant chief! — is 

yet 
Red from the noble stroke which pierced, at once, 
A mother and the babe, whose little life 
Was from her bosom drawn ! — Immortal deeds 
For bards to hymn 1 

Guido {aside). I look upon his mien. 
And waver. Can it bel My boyish heart 
Deemed him so noble once ! A way, weak thoughts ! 
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine, 
From Lis proud glance 7 

Procida. Oh, thou dissembler! thou, 
So skilled to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, 
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee guilty ! Look on me, and say 
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved 
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, 
And forge new fetters for th' indignant land'? 
Whose was this treachery 1 

[Shores him papers. 
Who hath promised here, 
( Belike to appease the manes of the dead,) 



At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates. 

And welcome in the foel Who hath done this. 

But thou, a tyrant's friend? 

Raimond. Who hath done this'? 
Father 1 — if I may call thee by that narhe — 
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles 
Were masks that hid their daggers. — There, per- 
chance. 
May lurk what loves not light too strong. Forme, 
I know but this — there needs no deep research 
To prove the truth — that murderers may be traitors 
Ev'n to each other. 

Procida (to Montalba). His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue. 
And his eye quails not ! — Is .this innocence 1 

Montalba. No! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood 
of crime. 
— Thou bearest a gallant mien ! — But where is she 
Whom thou hast bartered fame and life to save, 
The fair Proven9al maid'? — What, kuowest thou 

not 
That this alone were guilt, to death allied '? 
Was 't not our law that he who spared a foe, 
(And is she not of that detested race 1) 
Should thenceforth be amongst us as a foe 1 
— Where hast thou borne her 1 — speak ! 

Raimond. That Heaven, whose eye 
Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her ; she is safe. 

Procida. And by that word 
Thy doom is sealed. — Oh God ! that I had died 
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength 
And glory of my heart 1 

CONSTANCE enters, and rushes to RAIMOND. 

Constance. Oh ! art thou found ? 
— But yet, to find thee thus ! — Chains, chains foi 

thee ! 
My brave, my noble love ! — Off with these bonds , 
Let him be free as air : — for I am come 
To be your victim now. 

Raimond. Death has no pang 
More keen than this. — Oh ! wherefore art thou here^ 
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee 
Saved, and at peace. 

Constance. At peace ! — And thou hast thought 
Thus poorly of my love 1 — But woman's breast 
Hath strength to suffer too. — Thy father sits 
On this tribunal; Raimond, which is he? 

Raimond. My father ! — who hath lulled thy gen- 
tle heart 
With that false hope "? — Beloved ! gaze around — 
See, if thine eye can trace a father's soul 
In the dark looks bent on us. 

Constance [after earnestly examining the cownr 
tenancesof the judges, falls at the feet of Pro- 
cida). Thou art he ! 
Nay, turn thou not away ! — for I beheld 
Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



91 



Pass o'er thy troubled eye ; and then I knew 
Thou wert his father ! — Spare him ! — take my life ! 
In truth a worthless sacrifice for his, 
But yet mine all. — Oh ! he hath still to run 
A long bright race of glory. 

Raimond. Constance, peace! 
I look upon thee, and my failing heart 
Is as a broken reed. 

Constance (^still addressing Procida^. Oh, yet 
relent ! 
If 'twas his crime to rescue me, behold 
I come to be the atonement ! Let him live 
To crown thine age with honour. — In thy heart 
There's a deep conflict ; but great nature pleads 
With an o'ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield ! 
—Thou art his father ! 

Procida {after a pause). Maiden, thou 'rt de- 
ceived ! 
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature 
Ere the full thunder bursts. — A judge is not 
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son '? 
— My son ! — Ay ! thus his mother proudly smiled — 
But she was noble ! — Traitors stand alone. 
Loosed from all ties. — Why should I trifle thus 1 
— Bear her away ! 

Raimond (starting forward). And whither 1 

Montalha. Unto death. 
Why should she live when all her race have pe- 
rished 7 

Constance {sinking into the arms of Raimond'). 
Raimond, farewell ! — Oh ! when thy star hath 
risen 
To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved, 
I died for thee ! 

Raimond. High Heaven ! thou seest these things; 
And yet endurest them ! — Shalt thou die for me. 
Purest and loveliest being 1 — but our fate 
May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold — 
Her deep blue eyes are closed — Should this be 

death ! 
— If thus, there yet were mercy ! — Father, father ! 
Is thy heart human ? 

Procida. Bear her hence, I say ! 
Why must my soul be torn 1 

ANSELMO enters, holding a Crucifix. 

Anselmo. Now, oy this sign 
Of Heaven's prevailing love, ye shall not harm 
One ringlet of her head. — How ! is there not 
elnougli of blood upon your burthened souls 1 
Will not the visions of your midnight couch 
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap 
Crime u j)on crime 7 — Be ye content : — your dreams. 
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet 
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep, 
E'en though this maid be spared ! — Constance, 

look up ! 
Thou shalt not die. 



Raimond. Oh ! death e'en now hath veiled 
The light of her soft beauty. Wake, my love ' 
Wake at my voice ! 

Procida. Anselmo, lead her hence, 
And let her live, but never meet my sight. 
— Begone ! — My heart will burst. 

Raimond. One last embrace ! 
— Again life's rose is opening on her cheek ; 
Yet must we part. So love is crushed on eartli ! 
But there are brighter worlds ! — Farewell, farewell ! 
{He gives her to the care of Anselmo.) 

Constance {slowUj recovering). There was a 
voice which called me. Am I not 
A spirit freed from earth 7 Have I not passed 
The bitterness of death 1 

Anselmo. Oh, haste away ! 

Constance. Yes! Raimond calls me. He too is 
released 
From his cold bondage. We are free at last, 
And all is well — Away ! 

{She is led out by Anselmo.) 

Raimond. The pang is o'er, 
And I have but to die. 

Montalba. Now, Procida, 
Comes thy great task. Wake ! summon to thine aid 
All thy deep soul's commanding energies ; 
For thou — a chief among us — must pronounce 
The sentence of thy sou. It rests with thee. 

Procida. Ha ! ha !— Men's hearts should be of 
softer mould 
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom 
Their children then with an unfaltering voice, 
And we must tremble thus ! Is it not said. 
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now 
So full of days 7 

Montalha. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Procida. Ay, thou sayest right. There yet are 
souls which tower 
As landmarks to mankind. Well, what's the task? 
— There is a man to be condemned, you say 1 
Is he then guilty 7 

All. Thus we deem of him 
With one accord. 

Procida. And hath he nought to plead 7 

Raimond. Nought but a soul unstained. 

Procida. Why, that is little. 
Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems 

them, 
And conscience— may be seared. — But, for thi3 
sentence ! 

Was 't not the j^pnalty imposed on man. 
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must diel 
— It was: thus making guilt a sacrifice 
Unto eternal justice ; and we but 
Obey Heaven's mandate, when we cast dark sous 
To th' elements from amongst us. — Be it so! 
Such be his doom ! — I have said. Ay, now rt>» 
heart 



Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press 
Its gaspings down. — Off! let me treathe in free- 
dom ! 
--Mountains are on my breast! (^He sinks bacK.) 

Montalba. Guards, bear the prisoner 
Back to his dungeon. 

Raimond. Father I oh, look up ; 
'I'hou art my father still! 

Guiclo (leaving the Tribunal, throios himself on 
the neck of Raimond). Oh! Raimond, Rai- 
mond ! 
If it should be that I have wronged thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me. 

Raimond. Friend of my young days, 
So may all-pitying Heaven ! 

(^Raimond is led out.) 
Procida. Whose voice was that % 
Where is he 1 — gone ? — now I may breathe once 

more 
\n the free air of heaven. Let us away. 

{^Exeunt omnes. 



ACT THE FIFTH. 

SCENE I. A PRISQJ^, DIMLY LIGHTED. 

RAIMOND sleeping. PROCIDA enters. 

Procida. (^gazing upon him. earnestly). Can 
he then sleep 1 — Th' o'ershadowing night 
hath wrapt 
Earth, at her stated hours — the stars have set 
Their burning watch; and all things hold their 

course 
Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep 
Sat on mine eyelids since — but this avails not ! 
- -And thus he slumbers ! — " Why, this mien doth 

seem 
A s if its soul were but one lofty thought 
Of an immortal destiny !" — his brow 
Is calm as waves whereon the mid night heavens 
Are imaged silently. — Wake, Raimond, wake! 
Thy rest is deep. 

Raimond {^starting up). My father! — Where- 
fore herel 
t aru prepared to die, yet would 1 not 
Fall by thy hand. 
Procida. 'T was not for this I came. 
Raimond. Then wherefore 1 — and upon thy 
lofty brow 
Why burns the troubled flush 1 

Procida. Perchance 'tis shame. 
Ifes ! 't may well be shame ! — for I have striven 
With nature s feebleness, and been o'erpowered. 
— Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze, 
IHoting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. 
Arise, and follow me ; but let thy step 
Fall without sound on earth : I have prepared 
The means for thy escape. 



Raimond. What ! thou I the austere. 
The inflexible Procida ! hast thou, done this, 
Deeming me guilty stilH 

Procida. Upbraid me notl 
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds 
By Roman fathers done, — but I am weak. 
Therefore, again I say, arise ! and haste. 
For the night walies. Thy fugitive course muse 

be 
To realms beyond the deep ; so let us part 
In silence, and for ever. 

Raimond. Let him fly 
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast, 
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men ! 
— I can sleep calmly here. 

Procida. Art thou in love 
With death and infamy, that so thy choice 
Is made, lost boy '. when freedom courts thy grasp 1 

Raimond. Father ! to set th' irrevocable seal 
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me 
There needs but flight. What should I bear fronj 

this, 
My native land "? — A blighted name, to rise 
And part me, with its dark remembrances. 
For ever from the sunshine ! — O'er my soul 
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny 
Float in dim beauty through the gloom; but here, 
On earth, my hopes are closed. 

Procida. Thy hopes are closed ! 
And what were they to mine 1 — Thou wilt not fly ' 
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn 
How proudly guilt can talk ! — Let fathers rear 
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds 
Foster their young ; when these can mount alone, 
Dissolving nature's bonds — why should it not 
Be so with us? 

Raimond. Oh, Father I — Now I feel 
What high prerogatives belong to death. 
He hath a deep, though voiceless eloquence. 
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil 
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, 
And in its vast, oblivious folds, for ever 
Give shelter to our faults." When I am gone. 
The mists of passion which have dimmed my name 
Will melt like day-dreams ; and my memory then 
Will be — not what it should have been — for I 
Must pass without my fame — but yet, unstained 
As a clear morning dew-drop. Oh ! the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's, ■ 
And they should be my own ! 

Procida. Now, by just Heaven, 
I will not thus be tortured ! — Were my heart 
But of thy guilt or innocence assured, 
I could be calm again. " But, in this wild 
Suspense, — this conflict and vicissitude 
Of opposite feelings and convictions — What . 
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend 
All spirits to my purpose ; have I raised 
With a severe and passionless energy, 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Dc 



From the dread mingling of their elements, 
Storms which have rocked the earth 7 — And shall 

I now 
Thus fluctuate, as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plaything of the winds 1" — Look on me, boy ! 
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close. Oh, pitying Heaven ! 
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, 
And tell me which is truth. 

Raimond. I will not plead. 
I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father, in thy heart 
I know my birthright shall be soon restored ; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Prucida. Oh! my son, my son! 
We will not part in wrath ! — the sternest hearts. 
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses, 
Hide something still, round which their tendrils 

cling 
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress 
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me! 
The all which taught me that my soul was cast 
In nature's mould. — And I must now hold on 
My desolate course alone! — Why, be it thus! 
He that doth guide a nation's star, should dwell 
High o'er the clouds in regal solitude, 
Sufficient to himself. 

Raimond. Yet, on that summit. 
When with her bright wings glory shadows thee. 
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath, 
Yet might have soared as high ! 

Procida. No, fear thou not ! 
Thou 'It be remembered long. The canker-worm 
C th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Raimond. " Oh ! not thus — 
I would not thus be thought of" 

Procida. Let me deem 
Again that thou art base ! — for thy bright looks, 
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth, 
Then would not haunt me as ih' avenging powers 
Followed the parricide. — Farewell, farewell ! 
I have no tears.— Oh ! thus thy mother looked, 
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile, 
All radiant with deep meaning, from her death-bed 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Raimond. Now death has lost 
His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent. 

Frccida (wildly). Thou innocent!— Am I thy 
murderer then ? 
Away . I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men !— No ! I will not forgive thee ; 
h traitor!— What! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins !— Let the earth drink it; 
T/ioxi wouldst receive our foes ! — but they shall 

meet 
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold 
As death can make it — Go, prepare thy soul ! 

Raimond. Father ! yet he.ar me ! 



Procida. No! thou 'rt skilled to make 
E'en shame look fair. — Why should I linger thus ! 
( Going to leave the prison he turns back for a 
moment.) 
If there be aught — if aught — for which thou 

need'st 
Forgiveness — not of me, but that dread power 
From whom no heart is veiled — delay thou not 
Thy prayer : — Time hurries on. 
Raimond. I am prepared. 

Procida. 'Tis well. [Exit Procida. 

Raimond. Men talk of torture! — Can they 
wreak 
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame, 
Half the mind bears, and lives? — My spirit feels 
Bewildered; on its powers this twilight gloom 
Hangs like a weight of earth. — It should be morn ; 
Why, then, perchance, a beam of Heaven's bright 

sun 
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon, 
Telling of hope and mercy ! 

[Exit into an inner cell. 

SCENE II. — A STREET OF PALERMO. 
Many CITIZENS assembled. 

First Citizen. The morning breaks ; his time 
is almost come: 
Will he be led this way? 

Second Citizen. Ay, so 'tis said. 
To die before that gate through which he purposed 
The foe should enter in. 

Third Citizen. 'Twas a vile plot! 
And 3'et I would my hands were pure as his 
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the 

sounds 
I' th' air last night 1 

Second Citizen. Since the great work of 
slaughter. 
Who hath not heard them duly, at those hours 
Which should be silent 1 

Third Citizen. Oh! the fearful mingling, 
The terrible mimicry of human voices. 
In every sound which to the heart doth speak 
Of wo and death. 

Second Citizen. Ay, there was woman'? shrill 
And piercing cry ; and the low feeble wail 
Of dying infants; and the half-suppressed 
Deep groan of man in his last agonies! 
And now and then there swelled upon the bi-eezo 
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far 
Than all the rest. 

Pirst Citizen. Of our own fate, perchance 
These awful midnight waitings may be doomed 
An ominous prophecy. — Should France regain 
Her power amongst us, doubt not, we shall hxw 
Stern reckoners to account with. — Hark! 

( The sound of trumpets hnard at disiarue.} 

Second Citizen. 'Twas bui 
A rushing of the breeze 



Third CiUzen. E'en now, 'tis said, 
The hostile bands approach. 
( Tke sound is heard gradually drawing nearer.) 

Second Citizen. Again I — that sound 
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells — 
They come, they come ! 

PROCIDA enters. 

Procida. The foe is at your gates ; 
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset : 
Why are ye loitering here 1 

Citizens. My lord, we came — 

Procida. Think ye I know not wherefore 1 — 
'twas to see 
A fellow-being die I — Ay, 'tis a sight 
Man loves to look on, and the tenderest hearts 
Recoil, and yet withdraw not, from the scene. 
For this ye came — What ! is our nature fierce, 
Or is there that in mortal agony. 
From which the soul, exulting in its strength. 
Doth learn immortal lessons'? — Hence, and arm! 
Ere the night dews descend, ye will have seen 
Enough of death ; for this must be a day 
Of battle ! — 'Tis the hour which troubled souls 
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings 
Which bear them up ! — Arm, arm ! 'tis for your 

homes. 
And all that lends them loveliness — Away ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — PRISON OF RAIMOND. 
RAIMOND. ANSELMO. 

Raimond. And Constance then is safe ! — Hea- 
ven bless thee, father ; 
Good angels bear such comfort. 

Anselmo. I have found 
A safe asylum for thine honoured love, 
Where she may dwell until serener days. 
With Saint Rosolia's gentlest daughters ; those 
Whose hallowed office is to tend the bed 
Of pain and death, and sooth the parting soul 
With their soft hymns : and therefore are they 

called 
" Sisters of Mercy." 

Raimond. Oh ! that name, my Constance, 
Befits thee well ! E'en in our happiest days. 
There was a depth of tender pensiveness, 
Far in thine eyes' dark azure, speaking ever 
Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace 1 

Anselmo. Alas ! what should I say 1 

Raimond. Why did I ask ? 
Knowing the deep and full devotedness 
Of her young heart's affections'? — Oh ! the thought 
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreanis. 
Which should have been so tranquil ! And her soul, 
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love, 
{sven unto death will sicken. 

Anselmo. All that faith 
(/an yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes; 



And still, whate'er betide, the light of Heaven 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son.' 
Is thy young spirit mastered and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change"? 

Raimond. Ay, father! ofmybriefremainingtasjlr 
The least part is to die ! — And yet the cup 
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips. 
Crowned with that sparkling bubble, whose proud 

name 
Is — glory ! — Oh ! my soul, from boyhood's morn, 
Hath nursed such mighty dreams ! — It was my hope 
To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds, 
Into the far hereafter : there to be 
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb, 
Murmuring — Awake ! — Arise ! — But this is past ! 
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame, 
To sleep forgotten in the dust — but now 
— Oh God ! — the undying record of my grave 
Will he, — Plere sleeps a traitor ! — O ne, whose crime 
Was— to deem brave men might find nobler weapons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger I 

Anselmo. Oh, my son. 
Subdue tliese troubled thoughts ! Thou wouldst 

not change 
Thy lot for theirs, o'erwhosedark dreams will hang 
The avenging shadows,which the blood-stained soul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Raimond. Thou 'rt right. I would not. 
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart. 
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
Into that still and passive fortitude. 
Which is but learned from suffering. Would the 

hour 
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand ! 
Anselmo. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not 

heard — 
— But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath 

reached 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior-men, are marshalled, and gone forth 
In that high hope which makes realities, 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 
Raimond (starting up). They are gone forth ! 

my father leads them on ! 
All, all Palermo's youth ! — No ! one is left, 
Shut out from glory's race ! — They are gone forth! 
— Ay ! now the soul of battle is abroad. 
It burns upon the air ! — The joyous winds 
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam 
Of battle's roaring billows ! — On my sight 
The vision bursts — it maddens ! 'tis the flaah! 
The hghtning-shock of lances, and the cloud 
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze 
Of helmets in the sun ! — The very steed 
With his majestic rider glorying shares 
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane 



The vespers op Palermo. 



95 



As a triumphant banner ! — Such things are 
Even novv — and I am here ! 

Anselvio. Alas, be calm ! 
To the same grave ye press, — thou that dost pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raiviond. Ay ! Thou canst feel 
The cahn thou wouldst impart, for unto thee 
All men alike, the warrior and the slave, 
Seem, as thou sayst, but pilgrims, pressing on 
To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same ! 
Their graves, who fall in this day's light, will be 
As altars to their country, visited 
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, 
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead : 
Will mine be such '? 

VITTORIA rushes in wildly, as if pursued. 

Vittoria. Ansel mo! art thou found ? 
Haste, haste, or all is lost. Perchance thy voice 
Whereby they deem Heaven speaks, thy liftedcross, 
And prophet-mien, may stay the fugitives, 
Or shame them back to die. 

Anselvio. The fugitives ! 
What words are these 1 — the sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe 1 

Vittoria. That I should say 
It is too true ! 

Anselmo. And thou — thou bleedest, lady! 

Vittoria. Peace ! heed not me, when Sicily is 

lost: 

I stood upon the walls, and watched our bands, 
As, with their ancient, royal banner spread. 
Onward they marched. The combat was begun, 
The iiery impulse given, and valiant men 
Had sealed their freedom with their blood — when 

lo! 
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals 
To join th' invader's host. 

Raimond. His country's curse 
Rest on the slave for ever ! 

Vittoria. Then distrust 
E'en of their nobler leaders, and dismay, 
That swift contagion, on Palermo's bands 
Came, like a deadly blight. They fled ! — Oh shame ! 
E'en now they fly ! — Ay, through the city gates 
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams 
Pursued their winged steps ! 

Raimond. Thou hast not named 
Their cnief— Di Procida — He doth not fly. 

Vittoria. No ! like a kingly lion in the toils, 
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives 
But all in vain 1 The few that breast' the storm, 
With Guido and Montalba, by his side. 
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field. 

Raimond. And I am here! — Shall there be 
power, O God ! 
In the roused energies of fierce despair. 
To burst my heart — and not to rend my chains 1 



Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vittoria {after gazing upon him earnestly). 
Why, 'twere a deed 

Worthy the fame and blessing of all time, 
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida ! 
Thou art no traitor : — from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul ! — Arise 1 go forth ! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit still prevail. 
Ere I depart — for the strong hand of death 
Is on me now, 

{She sinks back against a pillar.^ 
Anselmo. Oh Heaven! the life-blood streams 
Fast from thy heart — thy troubled eyes grow dim. 
Who hath done this 1 

Vittoria. Before the gates I stood. 
And in the name of him, the loved and lost, 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe. 
Fraught with my summons to his viewless home, 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Anselmo. Yet, oh yet, 
It may not be too late. Help, help ! 

Vittoria. Away ! 
Bright is the hour which brings me liberty I 

{Attendants enter.) 
Haste, be those fetters riven ! — Unbar the gates, 
And set the captive free! 

{The Attendants seem to hesitate.) 
Know ye not her 
Who should have worn your country's diademl 
Attendants. Oh, lady, we obey. 

( They take oj^ Raimond' s chains. He sprinsa 
up exultingltj.) 
Raimond. Is this no dream? 
— Mount, eagle ! thou art free! — Shall I then die, 
Not 'midst the mockery of insulting crowds, 
But on the field of banners, where the brave 
Are striving for an immortality 1 
— It is e'en so! — Now for bright arms of proot, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vittoria. Away, be strong ! 
And let thy battle-words, to rule the storm, 
Be — Conradin! {He rnshes out.^ 

Oh ! for one hour of life 
To hear that name blent with th' exulting shoifi 
Of victory ! — 't will not be ! — A mightier power 
Doth summon me away. 

Anselmo. To purer worlds 
Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vittoria. Yes ! he is there. 
All glorious in his beauty! Conradin! 
Death parted us — and death shall re-unite 1 
— He will not stay! — it is all darkness now- 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. {She iiai ' 
Anselmo. She is gone ! 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



It IS an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once. — Have mercy, Heaven ! 
(^He kneels beside her.^ 
( The scene closes.) 

SCENE IV. — BEFORE THE GATES OP PALERMO. 
SICILIANS flying tumultuously towards the Gates. 

Voices (without). Montjoy! Montjoy! St. Den- 
nis for Anjou ! 
Proven 9als, on ! 

Sicilia?is. Fly, fly, or all is lost! 
{Raiviond appears in the gatcwaij, armed, and 
carrying a banner.) 
Raimond. Back, back, I say ! ye men of Sicily ! 
All is not lost ! Oh shame ! — A few brave hearts 
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts 
Against the rush of thousands, and sustained, 
And made the shock recoil. — Ay, man, free man, 
Still to be called so, hath achieved such deeds 
As heaven and earth have marvelled at ; and souls, 
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come, 
Shall burn to hear: transmitting brightly thus 
Freedom from race to race ! — Back ! or prepare. 
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very 

shrines, 
To bleed and die in vain ! — Turn, follow me! 
Conradin, Conradin ! — for Sicily 
His spirit fights I — Remember Conradin ! 

( They begin to rally around him.) 
Ay, this is well ! — Now follow me, and charge ! 
The Provencals rush in, hut are repulsed by 
the Sicilians.) 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE V. PART OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

MONTALBA enters wounded, and supported by RAIMOND, 
whose face is concealed by his helmet. 

Raimond. Here rest thee, warrior. 
Montalba. Rest, ay, death is rest. 
And such will soon be mine — But. thanks to thee, 
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian ! 
These lips are all unused to soothing words. 
Or I should bless the valour which hath won 
For my last hour, the proud free solitude 
Wherewith my soul would gird itself — Thy name? 
Raimond. 'Twill be no music to thine ear, Mon- 
talba. 
G.aze — read it thus ! 

{He lifts the visor of his helmet.) 
Montalba. Raimond di Procida ! 
Raimond. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter 
hate 
Hut fare thee well! Heaven's peace be with thy 

soul! 
I must away — One glorious efibrt more 
And this proud field is won ! 

[Exit Raimond. 
Montalba. Am I thus humbled ? 
y nw jny heart sinks within me ! But 'tis death 



(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued 
My towering nature thus ! — Yet is he welcome 
That youth — 'twas in his pride he rescued mei 
I was his deadhest foe, and thus he proved 
His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! hut he shall fail 
To melt me into womanish feebleness. 
There I still baffle him — the grave shall seal 
My Hps for ever— mortal shall not hear 
Montalba say — " Forgive !" {He dies.) 

( The scene closes.) 

SCENE VI. — ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD. 

PROCIDA. GUIDO. And otlier Sicilians. 

Procida. The day is ours; but he, the brave 
unknown, 
Who turned the tide of battle ; he whose path 
Was victory — who hath seen him? 

ALBERTI is brought in wounded, and fettered. 

Alberti. Procida! 

Procida. Be silent, traitor! — Bear him from my 
sight 
Unto your deepest dungeons. 

Alberti. In the grave 
A nearer home awaits me. — Yet one word 
Ere my voice fail — thy son — 

Procida. Speak, speak ! 

Alberti. Thy son 
Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait'rous plot 
Was mine alone. {He is led away.) 

Procida. Attest it, earth and Heaven! 
My son is guiltless ! — Hear it, Sicily ! 
The blood of Procida is noble still ! 
— My son ! — He lives, he lives! — His voice shall 

speak 

Forgiveness to his sire ! — His name shall cast 
Its brightness o'er my soul ! 

Guido. Oh, day of joy 1 
The brother of niy heart is worthy still 
The lofty name he bears. 

ANSELMO enters. 

Procida. Anselmo ! welcome ! 
In a glad hour we meet, for know, my son 
Is guiltless. 

Anselmo. And victorious ! by his arm 
All hath been rescued. 

Procida. How ! th' unknown — 

Anselmo. Was he ! 
Thy noble Raimond ! By Vittoria's hand 
Freed from his bondage in that awful hour 
When all was flight and terror. 

Procida: Now my cup 
Of joy too brightly mantles ! — Let me press 
My warrior to a father's heart — and die; 
For life hath nought beynd — Why cmi es he 

not 1 
Anselmo, lead me to my vaUant boy! 

Anselmo. Temper this proud delight. 



% 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO 



9: 



Procida. What means that look ^ 
He hath not fallen? 

Anselmo. He lives. 

Procida. Away, away ! 
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp 
Prepaie to greet her victor. Let this hour 
Atone for all his wrongs ! — [Exeunt. 

SCENK VII. — GARDEN OP A CONVENT. 

RAUIOND is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants. 

Raimond. Bear me to no dull couch, but let me 
die 
In the bright face of nature ! — Lift my helm, 
That I may look on heaven. 

First Attendant {to Second Attendant). Lay 
him to rest 
On this green sunny bank, and I will call 
Some holy sister to his aid ; but thou 
Return unto the field, for high-born men 
. There need the peasant's aid. 

[Exit Second Attendant. 
(Tb Raimond). Here gentler hands 
Shall tend thee, warrior ; for in these retreats 
TheT/ dwell, whose vows devote them to the care 
Of all that suffer. May'st thou hve to bless them ! 
[Exit First Attendant. 
Raimond. Thus have I wished to die! — 'Twas 
a proud strife ! 
My father blessed th' unknown who rescued him, 
(Blessed him, alas ! because unknown !) and Guido, 
Beside me bravely struggling, called aloud, 
"Noble Sicilian, on!" Oh! had they deemed 
'Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurned 
Mine aid, though 'twas deliverance; and their 

looks 
Had fallen, like blights, upon me. — There is one. 
Whose eye ne'er turned on mine, but its blue light 
Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist 
Raised by deep tenderness ! — Oh might the soul 
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish! 
— Is 't not her voice! 

CONSTANCE enters, speaking to a NUN, who turns into 
another path. 

Constance. Ohl happy they, kind sister, 
Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall 
With brave men side by side, when the roused 

heart 
Beats proudly to the last! — There are high souls 
Whose hope was such a death, and 'tis denied ! 
{She approaches Raimond). 
Voung warrior, is there aught — thou here, my 

Raimond ! 
Thou here — and thus! — Oh! is this joy or wol 
Raimond. Joy, be it joy, my own, my blessed 
love. 
E'en on the grave's dim verge! — yes! it w joy! 
My Constance' victors have been crowned, ere 
A now 

11 



With the green shining laurel, when their brows 
Wore death's own impress — and it may be thus 
E'en yet with me ! — They freed me, when the foe 
Had half prevailed, and I have proudly earned, 
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die 
Within thine arms. 

Constance. Oh ! speak not thus — to die ! 
These wounds may yet be closed. 

{She attempts to bind his wounds.) 
Look on me, love ! 

Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien, 
'Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye 
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray 
Seems born to be immortal ! 

Raimond. 'Tis e'en so! 
The parting soul doth gather all her fires 
Around her: all her glorious hopes, and dreams 
And burning aspirations, to illume 
The shadowy dimness of th' untrodden path 
Which lies before her; and, encircled thus, 
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence 
Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares 
Are vain, and yet I bless them. 

Constance. Say, not vain; 
The dying look not thus. We shall not part! 

Raimond. I have seen death ere now, and 
known him wear 
Full many a changeful aspect. 

Constance. Oh ! but none 
Radiant as thine, my warrior! — Thou wilt live! 
Look round thee ! — all is sunshine — is not this 
A smiling world 1 

Raimond. Ay, gentlest love, a world 
Of joyous beauty and magnificence. 
Almost too fair to leave 1 — Yet must we tame 
Our ardent hearts to this! — Oh, weep thou not! 
There is no home for liberty, or love. 
Beneath these festal skies ! — Be not deceived ! 
My way lies far beyond ! — I shall be soon 
That viewless thing which, with its mortal wee>)i» 
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust, 
Forgets not how to love ! 

Constance. And must this be? 
Heaven, thou art merciful ! — Oh ! bid our souls 
Depart together! 

Raimond. Constance I there is strength 
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved 
Nobly for me: — Arouse it once again ! 
Thy grief unmans me — and I fain would meet 
That which approaches, as a brave man yields 
With proud submission to a mightier foe. 
— It is upon me now! 

Constance. I will be calm. 
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, 
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, 
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is 
A world, (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight 
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there 
I shall be with thee soon! 



93 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



PROCIDA and ANSELMO enter. PROCIDA on seeing 
RAMOND starts back. 

Anselmo. Lift up thy head, 
Brave 3routh, exultingly! for lo! thine hour 
Of glory comes ! — Oh! doth it come too late 7 
E'en now the false Alberti hath confessed 
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doomed 
To be th' atonement. 

Raiinond. 'Tis enough! Rejoice, 
Rejoice, my Constance ! for I leave a name 
O'er which thou may'st weep proudly! 

(iie sinks back.) 
To thy breast 

Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart 
Hath touched my veins. 

Constance. And must thou leave me, Raimond ] 
Alas ! thine eye grows dim — Its wandering glance 
Is full of dreams. 

Raimond. Haste, haste, and tell my father 
I was no traitor ! 

Procida (rushing forward). To that father's 
heart 
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs, return! 
Speak to me, Raimond ! — Thou wert ever kind. 
And brave, and gentle ! Say that all the past 
Shall be forgiven ! That word from none but thee 
My lips e'er asked. — Speak to me once, my boy. 
My pride, my hope! — And is it with thee thus"? 
Look on me yet! — Oh! must this wo be borne 7 

Raimond. Off with this weight of chains! it is 
not meet 
For a crowned conqueror ! — Hark, the trumpet's 
voice ! 

{A sound of triumphant music is heard, 
gradually approaching.) 
Is 't not a thrilling calll — What drowsy spell 
Benumbs me thus 1 — Hence ! I am free again ! 
Now swell your festal strains, the field is won ! 
Sing me to glorious dreams. {He dies.) 

Anselmo. The strife is past. 
There fled a noble spirit ! 

Constance. Hush ! he sleeps- - 
disturb him not ! 

Anselmo. Alas ! this is no sleep 



From which the eye doth radiantly unclose : 
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er ! 

( The music continues approaching. GuicU 
enters, with Citizens and Soldiers.) 
Guido. The shrines are decked, the festivt 
torches blaze — 
Where is our brave deliverer? — We are come 
To crown Palermo's victor ! 

Anselmo. Ye come too late. 
The voice of human praise doth send no echo 
Into the world of spirits. ( The music ceases.) 

Procida {after a pause). Is this dust 
I look on — Raimond ! — 'tis but sleep — a smile 
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake I 
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day! 
My son, my injured son ! 

Constance {starting). Art thou his father? 
I know thee now. — Hence 1 with thy dark stern 

eye, 
And thy cold heart ! — Thou canst not wake him 
» now! 

Away ! he will not answer but to me, 
For none like me hath loved him ! He is minel 
Ye shall not rend him from me. 

Procida. Oh ! he knew 
Thy love, poor maid ! — Shrink from me now no 

more ! 
He knew thy heart — but who shall tell him now 
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony. 
Of my suppressed affection! — I have learned 
All his high worth in time — to deck his grave ! 
Is there not power in the strong spirit's wo 
To force an answer from the viewless world 
Of the departed 7 — Raimond ! — Speak ! forgive ! 
Raimond ! my victor, my deliverer, hear ! 
Why, what a world is this ! — Truth ever bursts 
On the dark soul too late : And glory crowns 
Th' unconscious dead ! — And an hour comes to 

break 
The mightiest hearts !— My son ! my son ! is this 
A day of triumph !— Ay, for thee alone ! 
{He throws himself upon the body of Raimond). 
[Curtain falls. 



THE LEAGUE OP THE ALPS. 



90 



Kilt Uratgite of tlie ^im* 



THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It was in the year 1308, that the Swiss rose 
against the tyranny of the BaiUffs appointed over 
them by Albert of Austria. The field called the 
wrutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the 
boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed 
upon by three spirited yeomen, "Walter Fiirst (the 
father-in-law of William Tell), Werner Staufta- 
cher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place 
of meeting, to deliberate on the accomplishment of 
their projects. 

" Hither came Fiirst and Melchthal, along secret 
paths over the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat 
Across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On the 
night preceding the Uth of November, 1307, they 
met here, each with ten associates, men of approv- 
ed worth ; and while at this solemn hour they were 
wrapt in the contemplation that on their success 
depended the fate of their whole posterity, Werner, 
Walter, and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, 
and in the name of the Almighty, who has created 
man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore 
jointly and strenuously to defend that freedom. 
The thirty associates heard the oath with awe; and 
with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all 
his saints, that they were firmly bent on offering 
up their lives for the defence of their injured hberty. 
They then calmly agreed on their future proceed 
ings, and for the present, each returned to his 
hamlet." — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confe- 
deracTf. 

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded 
in throwing off the Austrian yoke, and "it is well 
attested," says the same author, " that not one drop 
of blood was shed on this memorable occasion, nor 
had one proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a 
privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss met on 
the succeeding sabbath, and once more confirmed 
by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named 
it) their perpetual league." 



I. 

'TwAs night upon the Alps. — The Senn's(l) 

wild horn, 
Like a wind's voice, had poured its last long 

tone, 



Whose pealing echoes through the larcn-woods 

borne, 
To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had 

gone, 
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest; 
The chamois slumbered, for the chase was done 
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter prest, 
And the rock-eagle couched, liigh on his cloudy 

nest. 

II. 

Did the land sleep 1 — the woodman's axe, had 

ceased 
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane; 
The grapes were gathered in ; the vintage feast 
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hushed by the streams; the year was in its 

wane. 
The night in its mid-watch ; it was a time 
E'en marked and hollowed into Slumber's reign. 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, 
And o'er his white Alps moved the Spirit of the 

clime. 

III. 

For there, where snows in crowning glory spread, 
High and unmarked by mortal footstep lay; 
And there, where torrents, 'midst the ice-caves 

fed, 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away; 
And there, where Freedom, as in scornful play, 
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of 

air. 
O'er cliffs the very birth-place of the day — 
Oh ! who would dream th'at Tyranny would dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright worka 

e'en there *? 

IV. 

Yet thus it was — amidst the fleet streams gusb 

ing 
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cei!, 
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest 

rushing 
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest felJ, 
And the fresh pastures, where the herd's sweiit 

bell 



iOO 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Recalled such life as Eastern patriarchs led;— 
There peasant-men their free thoughts might 

not tell 
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread, 
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull, steal- 
thy tread. 



But in a land of happy shepherd-homes, 
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining 
With their bright hearth-fires, 'midst the twi- 
light-glooms, 
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods 

shining ; 
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining 
Their memory with all memories loved and 

blest — 
In such a land there dwells a power, combining 
The strength of many a calm, but fearless breast ; 
-And wo to him who breaks the sabbath of its 
rest ! 

VI. 

A sound went up — the wave's dark sleep was 

broken 
On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar — 
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore ; 
And then their gloom a flashing image wore 
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar 
In startled haste — and by that moonlight-flood, 
A. band of patriot-men on Griitli's verdure stood. 

VII. 

They stood in arms — the wolf-spear and the bow 
Had waged theit war on things of mountain- 
race; 
Might not th^ir swift stroke reach a mail-clad 

foel 
— Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase. 
True hearts in fight, were gathered on that place 
Of secret council. — Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face ; — 
To guartl free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, 
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. 

VIII. 

O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years liave flowed, and still, from sire to son, 
Their names and records on the green earth died, 
As cottage lamps, expiring, one by one, 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. — But silent on its height. 
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light. 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 
migh.: 



IX. 

So were they roused — th' invading step had pas! 
Their cabin-thresholds, and the lowly door. 
Which well had stood against the F6hnwind's(2) 

blast, 
Could bar Oppression from their homes no more 
— Why, what had she to do where all things 

wore 
Wild Grandeur's impress 1 — In the storm's free 

way. 
How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that winged their eagles with 

the day 7 

X. 

This might not long be borne — the tameless hill/ 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling 
Fraught with His name, whose avyiful presencf 

fills 
Their deep lone places, and forever telling 
That He hath made man free! — and they whosi 

dwelling 
Was on those ancient fastnesses, gave ear; 
The weight of sufferance from their hearts r© 

pelling. 
They rose — the forester, the mountaineer — 
Oh ! what hath earth more strong than the good 

paasant-spear"? 

XI. 

Sacred be Griitli's field — their vigil keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer-night, 
There, while the sons of happier lands were 

sleeping. 
Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight 
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppressed, had given their deep 

thoughts way. 
And braced their spirits for the patriot-fight, 
With lovely images of home, that lay 
Bowered 'midst the rustling pines, or by the tor- 
rent-spray. 



XII. 



-They 



Now had endurance reached its bounds 

came 
With courage set in each bright earnest eye, 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name, 
When they should gather on their hills to die, 
Or shake the Glaciers with their joyous cry 
For the land's freedom. — 'Twas a scene com- 
bining 
All glory in itself — the solemn sky. 
The stars, the waves their softened light enshrin- 
ing, 
And Man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature 
shining. 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



lOJ 



xin. 

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low, 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene, 
With the wood's whisper, and the wave's sweet 

flow, 
Had tempered in their thoughtful hearts the 

glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, 
E'en thus, of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death. 

XIV. 

And three, that seemed as chieftains of the band, 

Were gathered in the midst on that lone shore 

By Uri's lake — a father of the land, (3) 

One on his brow the silent record wore 

Of many days, whose shadows had passed o'er 

His path amongst the hills, and quenched the 

dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. — Yet from memory's lore 
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams. 
For he had walked with God, beside the mountain 

streams. 

XV. 

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their last pillow silently have gone. 
As melts a wreath of snow. — But who shall tell 
How life may task the spirit? — He was one. 
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done. 
And reaped his harvest, and his vintage pressed, 
Fearless of wrong; — and now, at set of sun. 
He bowed not to his years, for on the breast 
Of a still chainless land, he deemed it much to rest. 

XVL 

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil. 
Strong hearts endure ! — By that pale elder's side. 
Stood one that seemed a monarch of the soil, 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride, 
Werner, (4) the brave and true ! — If men have 

died. 
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep, 
He was a mate for such. — The voice, that cried 
Within his breast, "Arise!" came still and deep 
From his far home, that smiled, e'en then, in moon- 
light sleep. 

XVII. 

It was a home to die for ! — as it rose, 
Through its vine-foliage sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round; 
And he whose life to that sweet spot was bound. 
Raised unto Heaven a glad, yet thoughtful eye. 
And set his free step firmer on the ground, 

II* 



When o'er his soul its melodies went by, 
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy, 

XVIII, 

But who was he, that on his hunting-spear 
Leaned with a prouder and more fiery bearingi 
— His was a brow for tyrant-hearts to fear. 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame — a soul declaring 
War against earth's oppressors. — 'Midst that 

throng. 
Of other mould he seemed, and loftier daring, 
One whose blood swept high impulses along. 
One that should pass, and leave a name for waf< 
like song, 

XIX. 

A memory on the mountains ! — one to stand. 
When the hills echoed with the deepening swell 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, 
And in some rock-defile, or savage dell, 
Array her peasant-children to repel 
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains ! 
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell, 
Her banner with a smile — for through his veins 
The joy of danger flowed, as torrents to the plains. 

XX, 

There was at times a jvildness in the light 
Of his quick-flashing eye ; a something, born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright. 
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn ! 
It well might be ! — Young Erni's (5) step had 

worn 
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps, 
And tracked the lynx above the clouds of morn, 
And followed where the flying chamois leaps 
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfathomed glacier- 
deeps. 

XXI. 

He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being, whose bright spirit had been fed 
'Midst the crowned heights with joy and liberty. 
And thoughts of power. — He knew each path 

which led 
To the rock's treasure caves, whose crystals shed 
Soft light o'er secret fountains. — At the tone 
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer(6) had 

spread 
A startled wing ; for oft; that peal had blown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound 

alone, 

XXII. 

His step had tracked the waste, his soul bftd 

stirred 
The ancient solitudes — his voice had toW 



(»2 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Of wrongs to call down Heaven.(7) — That tale 

was heard 
In Hash's dales, and where the shepherds fold 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the light 
Of Day's last footstep bathes in burning gold 
Great Righis cliifs; and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his might. 

XXIII. 

Nor was it heard in vain. — There all things 

press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter 

passed, 
And, frojn the bosom of the wilderness. 
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down — and bright and 

fast, 
As the clear waters, joyously and free, 
Burst from the desert rock, it rushed, at last, 
Through the far valleys; till the patriot-three 
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest 

Sea.(8) 

XXIV. 

They linked their hands, — they pledged their 

stainless faith, 
In the dread presence of attesting HeaVen — 
They bound their hearts to suffering and to 

death. 
With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows.— How mun had striven, 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they 

knew. 
And called upon their God, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, suice He blew 
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might o'er- 

threw, 

XXV. 

They knelt, and rose in strength. — The valleys 

lay 
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted 
Into thfe bright mid-air, had caught from day 
A flush of fire, when those true Switzcrs parted. 
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted, 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born — 
So far was heard the blast of Freedom's echoing 
horn ! 

XXVI. 

Itie ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came 

rending 
The frozen stillness which around them hung; 
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending, 
Gave answer till the sky's blue hollows rung; 



And the flame-signals through the midnight 
sprung, 

From the Surennen rocks like banners stream- 
ing 

To the far Seelisberg ; whence light was flung 

On Griitli's field, till all the red lake gleaming 
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour 
seeming. 

XXVIl. 

And the winds tossed each summit's blazing 

crest, 
As a host's plumage ; and the giant pines, 
Felled where they waved o'er crag and eagle's 

nest. 
Heaped up the flames. The clouds grew fiery 

signs. 
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines 
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crowiliecl 

and bright. 
In Werner's dwelling flowed ; through leafless 

vines 
From Walter's hearth streamed forth the festive 

light, 
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to Heaven 

that night. 

XXVIII. 

Then, on the silence of the snows there lay 
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine, — and its bell 
Filled the hushed air awhile, with lonely sway; 
For the stream's voice was chained by Winter's 

spell. 
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. — But rock 

and dell 
Rung forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Pealed from the mountain-churches, with a swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea, — 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps 

were free. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 99, col. 1. 

^The Senn's wild horn. 

Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the 
Swiss Alps. 

Note 2, page 100, col. 2. 

^Against the Fohnwind's blast. 

Fohnwind, the South-east wind, which fre- 
quently lays waste the country before it. 

Note 3, page 101, col. 1. 

A father of the land. 

Walter Ftirst, the father-in-law of Tell. 
Note 4, page 101, col. 1. 
Werner, the braye and true ! &c. 
Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his 



THE LEAGUE OP THE ALPS. 



103 



wife to rouse and unite his countrymen for the de- 
liverance of Switzerland. 

Note 5, 'page 101, col. 3. 

^Young Erni's step had worn, &c. 

Erni, Arnold Melchthal. 

Note 6, page 101, col. 3. 

The Lammer-Geyer had spread, <&c. 

The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine 
eagle. 



Note 7, page 102, col. 1. 
Of wrongs to call down Heaven, &c. 
The eyes of his aged father had been put out, bv 
the orders of the Austrian Governor. 

Note 8, page 103. col. 1. 

Beside the Foresi-Sea. 

Forest-Sea. The Lake of the Four Cantons is 
frequently so called. 



Italia, Italia ! O tu cui feo la Sorte 
Dono infelice di bellezza, onde hai 
Funesta dole d' infiniti guai, 
Che 'n fronte scritti per gran doglia porte ; 

Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte. 

Filicaja, 



" But the joy of discovery was short, and the 
triumph of taste transitory. The French, who in 
every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and 
have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of 
the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious 
hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, 
tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and drag- 
ging them from their temples of marble, transport- 
ed them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull 
sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre.'" — 
Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. 
p. 60. 



Land of departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallowed soil hath given the great and brave, 
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave ; 
Home of the Arts ! where glory's faded smile 
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile ; 
Proud wreck of vanished power, of splendour fled, 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead ! 
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay. 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; 
Though dimmed thy brightness, riveted thy chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm ! once more 't is thine to gaze 
On the rich relics of sublimer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; 
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom. 
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb ; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, 
Swelled the deep echoes of the fountain's cave, 
Or thrilled the soul in Tasso's numbers high. 
Those magic strains of love and chivalry ; 
[f yet by classic streams ye fondly rove. 
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel-grove ; 



Oh ! rouse once more the daring soul of song, 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, 
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, 
Hallowed by time, by absence more endeared. 
And breathe to those the strain, whose warrior- 
might, 
Each danger stemmed, prevailed in every fight ; 
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, 
SuMimed by peril, and by toil matured. 
Sing of that leader, whose ascendant mind 
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind ; 
Whose baimers tracked the vanquished Eagle's 

flight 
O'er many a plain, and dark Sierra's height ; 
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay 
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; 
Who,through each mountain-pass of rock and snow, 
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe , 
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales. 
Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales, 
And 'mid those scenes renewed th' achievementt 

high, 
Bequeathed to fame by England's ancestry. 

Yet, when the storm seemed hushed, the conflict 
past, 
One strife remained — the mightiest and the last ! 
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour, 
Untamed Ambition summoned all his power; 
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 

Isle of the free! 'twas then thy champions ^tootl, 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood. 
Sunbeam of Battle, then thy spirit shone, 
Glowed in each breast, and sunk with life alona 
Oh heartb devoted ! whose illustrious doom. 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomt), 
Ye, firm and faithful, in th' ordeal ^-'ed 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified , 



104 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Shrined, iiot entombed, ye rest in sacred earth. 
Hallowed by deeds of more than mortal worth. 
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, 
Y^ours, on the scene where valor's race was run, 
A prouder sepulchre — the field ye won 1 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, 
Shall live a watch-word blended with your fame ; 
And well may flowers sufRce those graves to crown, 
That ask no urn to blazon their renown. 
There shall the bard in future ages tread. 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead ; 
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave 
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave ; 
Pause o'er each warrior' s grass-grown bed, and hear, 
In every breeze, some name to glory dear. 
And as the shades of twilight close around, 
With martial pageants people all the ground. 
Thither unborn descendants of the slain, 
Shall throng, as pilgrims to some holy fane, 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevailed, and fell, 
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below! 
And many an age shall see the brave repair, 
To learn the hero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame, 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 
Land of the lyre ! 'twas there th' avenging sword 
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; 
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw 
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy wo, 
And bid the stranger for awhile forget 
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet 

Yes ! fair creations, to perfection wrought, 
Embodied visions of ascending thought ! 
Forms of sublimity I by Genius traced. 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ; 
Wnose bright originals, to earth unknown, 
I/ive in the spheres encircling Glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consigned, 
Stamped with the high-born majesty of mind ; 
Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore 
One beam of splendour to your native ■shore, 
And her sad scenes of lost renown illu'Tie, 
As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. 

Oh ! ne'er in other cUmes, though many ?n eye 
Dw^elt on your charms in beaming ecstacy ; 
l^e'ei was it yours to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 
Where 'mid the ruined shrines of many a vale. 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends. 
Rut its proud name with song eternal blends! 

Yes! m those scenes, where every ancient stream, 
Mids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; 



I Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
I Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell. 
From each wild olive-wood and Alpine dell; 
Where heroes slumber, on their battle plains, 
'Mid prostrate altars, and deserted fanes. 
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot ; 
77iere was your home,and there your power imprest^ 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast; 
And as the wind's deep thrills, and mystic sighs, 
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, 
Thus at your influence, starting from repose. 
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. 

Fair Florence ! Clueen of Arno's lovely vale ! 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, 
And sternly smiled in retribution's hour. 
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourned o'er the domes they reared in ages fled. 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste. 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien. 
Revealed where conquest's lawless track had been j 
Reft of each form with brighter life imbued. 
Lonely they frowned, a desert solituje. 

Florence ! th' Oppressors noon of pride is o'ei, 

Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! 

As one, who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, 
With transport heightened by those ills of night, 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 
E'en thus awakening from thy dreams of wo. 
While Heaven's own hues in radiance round thea 

glow. 
With warmer ecstacy 't is thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious, since 

deplored 
As loved, lost relics, ne'er to be restored. 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed 
By fond affection bending o'er the dead. 

Athens of Italy ! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of Art's e;xhaustless mint. 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam. 
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, 
And forms august as natives of the sky, 
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty. 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand. 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye, at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, 
Burst in full splendor from her death-lilce trance ; 
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake 
And daring Intellect his bondage break ; 
Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose, 
And snatched the Tuscan lyre from long repose, 
And bade its pealing energies resound, 
With power electric, through the realms around ; 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. lOf) 



Oh ! high in thought, magnificent in soul ! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more, 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore! 
Again tli' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days : 
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined; 
Still, with ascendant power, the world to awe, 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around. 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground. 
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought. 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There thou, fair oflspring of imniortal Mind! 
Love's radiant Goddess, Idol of mankind! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light 
Flashed o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight. 
How many a glimpse, revealed to him alone. 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds his own ; 
Ere, like some vision sent tlie earth to bless, 
Burst info hfe thy pomp of loveliness ! 

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindhng 
eye 
On forms, instinct with bright divinity. 
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart. 
Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; 
From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand arrayed. 
From dreams of heaven, by Angelo portrayed; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, 
Sealed with perfection, ' sanctified by time ;' 
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal. 
Buoyant with loftier hopes his soul shall rise, 
'Imbued at once with nobler energies; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinion soar. 
And worlds of visionary grace explore. 
Till his bold hand give glory's day-dreams birth, 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 
Venice, exult! and o'er thy moonlight seas. 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martial fame. 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name; 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play. 
And the wild waves another Glueen obey; 
Though quenched the spirit of thine ancient race. 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace ; 
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast. 
And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes. 
Whose clear, soft brilliance emulates thy skies, 
And scenes that glow in coloring's richest bloom. 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From thy rich dome again th' unrivalled steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed. 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, 
Panting with ardor, vivified with flame. 
I 



Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought, 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught. 
No mortal birth ye seem — but formed to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of air , 
To range uncurbed the pathless fields of space. 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet. 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot star fleet ; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether! winged with liirlu, 
To track the regions of the Infinite! 
From purer elements whose hfe was drawn. 
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn. 
What years on years, in silence gliding by, 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne, 
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestowed. 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, 
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream. 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and brave ; 
How many a state, whose pillared strength sul> 

lime. 
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time. 
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone. 
Fortress of p>ower — has flourished and is gone ! 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn. 
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won 
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, 
Consummate still in every grace remain. 
As o'er their heads had ages rolled in vain ! 
Ages, victorious, in their ceaseless flight. 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain. 
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign, 
'Midst the blue deep, who reared her island 

throne. 
And called th' infinitude of waves her own ; 
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea. 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of t!ie free ! 
And thou, whose Eagle's towering plume un 
furled. 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world. 
Eternal city! round whose Curule throne 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ; 
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time 
Immortal records of their glorious prime : 
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades nmon^j 
Swelled the high raptures of heroic song; 
Fair, fallen empress ! raise thy languid heal 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead. 
And once again, with fond delisht. survey 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, oh Rome ! a godl'ke trriir. 
In imaged majesty return again ! 



J. 



Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien au- 
gust. 
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, 
Still o'er tliy children seem to claim control; 
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, 
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes, 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty! whose undying names. 
Rouse the young bosorn still to noblest aims ; 
Oh ! with your images could fate restore 
Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 
Patriots and heroes ! could those flames return. 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn; 
Then from the sacred ashes of the first. 
Might a new Rome in phcenix-grandeur hurst ! 
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom. 
With one loud call wake Empire from the tomb ; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread JEgis with majestic frown, 
Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide his flight, 
To bathe its plumage in the fount of light. 

Vain dream! degraded Rome! thy noon is o'er, 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, 
Who fixed on thee the world's adoring gaze; 
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high,. 
More blest, ere darkness quenched its beam, to die ! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers, 
[Jave fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, 
f^till, still to thee shall nations bend their way. 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 
Oh ! what can realms, in fame's full zenith, boast, 
To match the relics of thy splendour lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill, 
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still, 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom, 
And reared her throne o'er Latium's trophied tomb ; 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free. 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee I 

Oh ! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, 
Itend its last honours from the shattered oak! 
l^jong be those works, revered by ages, thine. 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful 
fire 
i n all the grandeur of celestial ire, 
Once more thine own, tb' immortal Archer's form. 
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm! 
C)h ! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame, 
A living temple of ethereal flamel 
Lord of the day-star ! how may words portray 
Of thy chaste glory one reflected rayl 
Whate'er the sou I could dream, the hand could 

trace, 
.>f regal dignity, and heavenly grace ; 
h.ach purer efliuence of the fair and bright, 
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight ; I 



Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky. 

To vest th' embodied form of deity; 

All, all in thee ennobled and refined, 

Breathe and enchant, transcend antly combined! 

Son of Elysium I years and ages gone 

Have bowed, in speechless homage, at thy throne 

And days unborn, and nations yet to be, 

Shall gaze, absorbed in ecstacy, on thee ! 

And thou, triumphant wreck, (1) e'en yet sub 
lime, 
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and Time, 
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught 
From thee its fervours of diviner thought I 
Where he, th' inspired one, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sphere, to him alone assigned ; 
Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen, 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien; 
Unrivalled Angelo, on thee would gaze, 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! 
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair! 
Emblem of Rome! from power's meridian hurled, 
Yet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands de- 
faced 
The work of wonder, idolized by taste 1 
Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode, 
Mould of a conquerer !(2) ruin of a god ! 
Still, like some broken gejn, whose quenchless 

beam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream 
'Tis thine, by fate unconquered, to dispense 
From every part, some ray of excellence I 
E'en yet, informed with essence from on high, 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality 1 
Within that frame a purer being glows, 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows; 
Filled with immortal life each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

Consummate work I the noblest and the last, 
Of Grecian Freedom,(3) ere her reign was past. 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still 
Her mantle flowed o'er many a classic hill. 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A Hero's image to the world bequeathed; 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray, 
Of high-souled Genius, fostered by her sway, 
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn. 
What lofty dreams were hers — who never shall re- 
turn ! 

And mark yon group, transfixed with many a 
throe. 
Sealed with the image of eternal wo : 
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast. 
And the stern combat picture to mankind, 
Of sufl^ering nature, and enduring mind. 
Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense 
Distend each nerve, and dart through every &ei:so 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OP ART TO ITALY. 



lo: 



Th(. ugh fixed on him, his children's suppliant eyes 
Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; 
Though, with the giant-snalie in fruitless strife, 
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, 
And in each limb Existence writhes, enrolled 
'Mid the dread circles of the venomed fold; 
Vet the strong spirit lives — and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony! 
That furrowed hrow unconquered soul reveals, 
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, 
That strugghng bosom concentrates its breath, 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death 1(4) 

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! 
With speechless horror to congeal the heart. 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein 
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain; 
Yet teach the snirit how its lolty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 

Turr. from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
On scenes where Painting all her skill displays: 
Landscapes, by colouring drest in richer dyes, 
More mellowed sunshine, more unclouded skies; 
Or dreams of bliss, to dying Martyrs given. 
Descending Seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

Oh ! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might. 
Its depth of shadow, and its blaze of light, 
Ye, whose bcjld thought, disdaining every bound, 
Explored the worlds above, below, around, 
Children of Italy! who stand alone. 
And unapproached, 'midst regions all your own ; 
What scenes, what beings blest your favoured 

sight, 
Severely grand, unutterably bright ! 
Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity, 
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontrolled 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splendour 
shed, 
As burst on Prophet-bards in ages fled : 
Forms that to trace, no hand but yours might darc^ 
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair, 
These o'er the walls your magic skill arrayed. 
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting 

shade. 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower. 
And breathe and move, the records of your power 
Inspired of Heaven! what heightened pompyecast_ 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome, 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome; 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
W hat Grecian Art could image and achieve ; 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Life's chastened warmth, and Beauty's mellowest 

glow. 
And when the morn's bright beams and mantling 

dyes 
Pool the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, 



Or evening suns illume, with purple smile, 
The Parian altar, and the pillared aisle, 
Then as the full, or softened radiance falls, 
On Angel-groups that hover o'er the walls. 
Well may those Temples, where your hand has 

shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, 
That nought of earth should find admittance there. 
Some sphere, where Beings, to mankind unknown, 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp, alone! 

Hence, ye vain fictions, fancy's erring theme, 
Gods of illusion ! phantoms of a dream ! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time. 
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assigned 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ! 
From brighter streams her vast ideas flowed, 
With purer fire her ardent spirit glowed. 
To her 't was given in fancy to explore 
The land of miracles, the holiest shore; 
That realm where first the light of life was sent, 
The loved, the punished, of th' Omnipotent ! 
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would 

stray. 
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way, 
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's(5) deep. 
Chained in dead silence, and unbroken sleep; 
Scenes whose cleft rocks, and blasted deserts, tell 
Where passed th' Eternal, where his anger fell! 
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveaJed, 
Swelled in the whirlwind, in the thunder pealed. 
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale, 
Breathed 'still small' whispers on the midniglu 

gale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand portrayea, 
'Mid the lone wilderness or cedar-shade. 
Ethereal forms, with awful missions fraught. 
Or Patriarch-seers, absorbed in sacred thought, 
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, 
Saints of the earth, and si>irits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save; 
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled. 
And soul returned to animate the dead; 
Whom the waves owned — and sunk beneath his 

eye, 
Awed by one accent of Divinity; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours. 
Hallowed her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. 
O'er the bright scenes sul>lime repose she threw, 
As all around the Godhead's presence knew, 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
In beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

Oh ! mark, where Raphael's pure and perffect 

line 
Portrays that form inofiablv divine !(G) 
Where with transcendant skill his hand has sued 
Diflfusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head; 



)(J8 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued 
With all the fulness of beatitude, 
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight 
Binks overpowered by that excess of light ! 

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
By truth inspired to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly possess, 
Of all her powers a heightened consciousness, 
And strong in hope, anticipate the day. 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray; 
To realize, in some unclouded sphere. 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here ! 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky. 
Faint effluence of " the Day-spring from on high !" 



NOTES 



Note 1, page 106, col. 2. 
The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of 
Michael Angelo, and of many other distinguished 
artists. 

Note 2, page 106, col. 2. 

"CLuoique cette statue d'Hercule ait ete mal- 
traitee et mutilee d'une maniere etrange, se trou- 
vant sans tete, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est 
cependant encore un chef-d'oeuvre aux yeux des 
connoisseurs; et ceux qui savent percer dans les 
mysteres de I'art, se la representent dans toute sa 
beaute. L'artiste, en voulant representer Hercule, 
a forme un corps ideal au-dessus de la nature. 
» * * Get Hercule paroit done ici tel qu'il dut etre, 
iorsque, purifie par le feu des foiblesses de I'huma- 
nite, il obtint Timmortalite, et prit place aupres 
lies dieux. II est represento sans aucun besoin 
de nourriture et de reparation de forces. Les 
>reines y sont toutes invisibles." — Winckelmann, 
Histoire de I' Art chez les Anciens, torn. ii. p. 348. 



Note 3, page 106, col. 2. 

"Le Torso d'Hercule paroit un des derniera 
ouvrages parfaits que I'art ait produit en Grece, 
avant la perte de sa liberte. Car apres que la 
Grece fut reduite en province Romaine, I'histoire 
ne fait mention d'aucun artiste celebre de cette 
nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Romain." 
Winckelmann, ibid. torn. ii. p. 250. 

Note 4, page 107, col. 1. 

" It is not, in the same manner, in the agonized 
limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, 
that the secret grace of its composition resides; it 
is in the majestic air of the head, which has not 
yielded to suffering, and in the deep serenity of 
the forehead, which seems to be still superior to 
all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that can 
not be subdued."- -Allison's Essays, vol. ii. p. 400, 

" Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature 
humaine dans la plus grande douleuj dont elle 
soit susceptible, sous I'image d'homme qui tache 
de rassembler centre elle toute la force de I'esprit. 
Tandis que I'exces de la souffrance enfle les mus- 
cles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se 
montre sur Ic front gonfle : la poitrine s'eleve avec 
peine par la necessite de la respiration, qui est 
egalement contrainte par le silence que la force de 
I'ame impose a la douleur qu'elle voudroit etouffer. 
* * * Son air est plaintif, et non criard. * * * * 
Winckelmann, ibid. torn. ii. p. 214. 

Note 5, page 107, col. 2. 

Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to 
the Dead Sea. 

Note 6, page 107, col. 2. 
The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a 
specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it waa 
carried before his body to the grave. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



109 



^uUu uu^ f^iuUvit ^ttmu. 



Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colere I Some charmed abode of beings all unknown, 
dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule I Powerful and viewless, children of the air.' 
peut ecarter de sa tete le poids d'infamie dont il 

est accable.— II se venge, parce qu'ases yeux il j ^^i* ^ere no footstep treads th' enchanted ground 
n'y a qu'une ame basse qui puisse pardonner les } _ There not a sound the deep repose pervade* 



affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s'il la 
sentoit s'eteindre, il croiroit avec elle, avoir perdu 
une vertu. Sismondi. 



The events with which the following tale is in- 
terwoven are related in the "Historia de las Guer- 
ras Civiles de Granada." They occurred in the 
reign of Abo Abdeli or Abdali, the last Moorish 
king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey 
Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand 
and Isabella, is said, by some historians, to have 
been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, 
whose defection was the result of the repeated in- 
juries they had received from the king at the 
instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beau- 
tiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the 
scene where so many of the former celebrated 
tribe were massacred; and it still retains their 
name, being called the " Sala de los Abencerra- 
ges." Many of the most interesting old Spanish 
ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and 
romantic period. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 

CANTO I. 

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls. 
Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o'er; 

And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls, 
Blend the wild notes of minstrelsy no more. 

Hushed are the voices, that, in years gone by, 
Have mourned, exulted, menaced, through thy 
towers ; 

Within tliy pillared courts the grass waves high, 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, 



Save winds and founts diffusing freshness round, 
Through the light domes and graceful colon- 
nades. 

Far other tones have swelled those courts along. 
In days romance 3'et fondly loves to trace; 

The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, 
The revels, combats, of a vanished race. 

And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call. 

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold! 
Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall, 
With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. 
— The sun declines — upon Nevada's height 
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower. 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour: 
Hushed are the winds, and Nature seems to sleep 
In light and stillness ; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven ; 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. 
— Yes, Nature sleeps ; but not with her at rest 
The fiery passions of the human breast. 
Hark! from th' Alhambra's towers what stormy 

sound, 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around 1 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng. 
Not the light zambra,(l) nor the choral song: 
The combat rages — 't is the shout of war, 
'Tis the loud clash of shield and scymetar. 
Within the hall of Lions, (2) where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze ; 
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands , 
There the strife centres — swords around him wave- 



Through tall arcades unmarked the sunbeam ^^^"^^ ^^'^^'-^ ^^'^ ^^"'^"' ^^'^^^ contend the brave. 



smiles, 
And many a tint of softened brilliance throws 
O'er fretted walls, and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone. 
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, 
12 



While echoing domes return the battle-cry, 
" Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die !" 
And onward rushing, and prevailing still, 
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill 
But first and bravest of that gallant train. 
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er ;n vain ) 



lie 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



In tiis red hand the sabre glancing bright, 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer hght, 
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, 
His Aben-Zurrahs(3) there young Hamet leads; 
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
' Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die!" 

Yes, trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath. 
By helm and corselet shattered in his path ; 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain. 
And by the marble's deepest crimson stain : 
Search through the serried fight, where loudest 

cries 
From triumph, anguish, or despair arise; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, 
And where the ground is reddest — he is there. 
Yes, that young man, amidst the Zegri host. 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 
They perished — not as heroes should have died, 
On the red field in victory's hour of pride. 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame. 
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came : 
Oh ! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear 
Had flowed, almost in triumph, o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those, 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
— Not such their fate — a tyrant's stern command 
Doomed tlieni to fall by some ignoble hand. 
As, with the flower of all their high-born race, 
Summoned Abdallah's royal feast to grace. 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh. 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall — to die. 
Betrayed, unarmed, they fell — the fountain wave 
Flowed crimson with the life-blood of the brave, 
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rung from gate to gate. 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rushed to the scene where vengeance might be 
won. 

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life. 
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, 
Stand fliint and breathless, but undaunted yet. 
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on ! one effort more. 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 

But lo! descending o'er the darkened hall. 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall, 
Nor yet the strife hath ceased — though scarce they 

know, 
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe ; 
Till tlie moon rises with her cloudless ray. 
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. 

Where lurks Abdallah? — 'midst hisyielding train 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain ; 
He lies not numbered with the valiant dead, 
(iis champions round him have not vainly bled ; 
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, 
And his last warriors found each eflTort fail, 
Jn wild dftspair he fled — a trusted few, 
K'mi'nc.il in crime are still in danger true ; 



And o'er the scene of jnany a martial deed, 
The Vega's(4) green expanse, his flying footsteps 

lead. 
He passed th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers 
In dew and starlight — there, from grot and cave 
Gushed in wild music many a sparkling wave ; 
There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rosCj 
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch ; in thy bosom reign 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again, 
Oh ! vainly bright is Nature in the course 
Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb ; 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair. 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not though the light gale roves 
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange- groves, 
Hears not the sound from wood and brook that rise, 
Wild notes of Nature's vesper melodies ; 
Marks not, how lovely, on the mountain's head, 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread j 
But urges onv^ard, till his weary band. 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. 
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fixed awhile remains ; 
In stern, deep silence — o'er his feverish brow, 
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, 
But waft, in fitful murmurs, from afar, 
Sounds, indistinctly fearful, — as of war. 
What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high, 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky 1 
Awful it rises like some Genie-form, 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm,(5) 
Magnificently dread — above, below. 
Spreads tlie wild splendour of its deepening glovsr 
Lo ! from th' Alhambra's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air; 
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, 
From dim perspective start to ruddy light. 

Oh Heaven ! the anguish of Abdallah's s^iil, 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond controul ! 
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly 
For life — such life as makes it bliss to die ! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half revealed 
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bent — yet oft; he turns, 
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. 
But paler grow the sinking flames at last. 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past. 
And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene, 
Mai-k where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reached that lonely pile, 
Where grief and terror may repose awhile ; 
Embowered it stands, 'midst wood and cli.fl'on high, 
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh ; 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



U\ 



Ho hails the scene where every care should cease, 
And all — except the heart he brings — is peace. 

There is deep stillness in those halls of statej 
Where the loud cries of conflict rung so late ; 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert passed.(6) 
Fearful the calm — nor voice, nor step, nor breath, 
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death : 
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, 
Save the wild gush of vs^aters — murmuring round, 
In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone. 
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. 
O'er the mosaic Hoors, with carnage red, 
Breastplate and shield, and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments — glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright. 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed. 
And smile, in placid beauty, o'er the dead: 
O'er features, where the fiery spirits trace, 
E'en death itself is powerless to efface. 
O'er those who, flushed with ardent youth, awoke, 
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke. 
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep, 
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep, 
In the low silent house, the narrow spot. 
Home of forgetfulness — and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars — the night is o'er — 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; 
Slumberers, who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
Mourners, who called the loved, the lost, in 

vain. 
Yet smiles the day — oh ! not for mortal tear 
Doth Nature deviate from her calm career, 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not 

share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, 
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows ; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below. 
And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of wo. 
And flowers renewed in spring's green pathway 

bloom. 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite 
Attends that day of loveliness and light; 
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gathered to the brave of other years: 
And Hamet, as beneath the cypress-shade 
His martyred brother and his sire are laid. 
Feels every deep resolve, and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance, e'en to passion wrought; 
Yet is the hour afar — and he must brood 
O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hushed — another day 
In still solemnity hath passed away, 
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, 
The calm that follows in the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, 
His ravaged city traversing again. 



No sound of gladness his approach precedes, 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
Where'er he moves the silent streets along, 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen thronff; 
No voice is heard — but in each altered eye. 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh 
And in each look of those whose love hath fled 
From all on earth to slumber with the dead, 
Those, by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone. 
In youth's quick glance of scarce dissembled rage, 
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age. 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Of thought that ill th' indignant heart can veil. 
And passion, like the hushed volcano's power. 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion, from Granada's walls 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly radiant eye; 
Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread, 
And song is hushed, and jJageantry is fled. 
— Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep — 
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep; 
Furled are their banners in the lonely hall. 
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the 

wall, 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er, 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more; 
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, 
Whom he hath wronged too deeply to forgive, 
That race, of lineage high, of worth approved. 
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved; 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs — they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause the conquering lance anit 

shield : 
Condemned to bid the cherished scenes farewell 
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell. 
And far o'er foreign plains, as exiles, roam, 
Their land the desert, a.)id the grave their home. 
Yet there is one shall see that race depart, 
In deep, though silent, agony of heart ; 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone. 
Unseen her sorrows, and their cause unknown, 
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear 
That smile, in which tiie spirit hath no share; 
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitlesus 

glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow. 

Sofl;, fresh, and silent, is the midnight hour. 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; 
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern Reason would efl^ace. 
Hamet 1 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race- 
Ami yet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love; 
Pangs, which the rose of wasted youth cnnsum* 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 



Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight, 

And the spring-morn of early genius blight; 

Not such her grief— though now she wakes to 

weep, 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of 

sleep.(7) 
A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, 
Lightly but by the rustUng leaves betrayed — 
Doth her young hero seek that well known spot. 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot? 
'Tis he — but changed that eye whose glance of 

fire 
Could, like a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire, 
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught. 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought; 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled. 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern thoughts and fierce resolves — now veiled in 

shade. 
And now in characters of fire portrayed. 
Changed e'n his voice — as thus its mournful tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. 
"Zayda, my doom is fixed — another day, 
A nd the wronged exile shall be far away ; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, 
His home of youth, and, more than all — from 

thee. 
Oh ! v> liat a cloud hath gathered o'er my lot, 
Since, last we met on this fair tranquil spot! 
Lovely as then, the soft and silent houi' 
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; 
But I— my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown. 
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. 
Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise, 
Heroic visions of my early days! 
In me the glories of my race must end. 
The exile hath no country to defend ! 
E'er^ jn life's morn, my dreams of pride are o'er, 
Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, 
And one wild feehng in my altered breast 
Broods darkly o'er the ruins of ':he rest. 
Vet fear not thou — to thee, in good or ill, 
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still! 
But when my steps are distant, and my name 
Thou hear'st no longer in the song of fame. 
When Time steals on, in silence to efface 
Of early love each pure and sacred trace, 
Gausincr our sorrows and our hopes to seem 
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, 
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth 
And all the fervor of aflfection's youth 1 
--If suchthf love, one beam of heaven shall play 
In loneiy oeauty, o'er thy wanderer's way.''' 

" Ask not, if such my love ! oh ! trust the mind 
'To grief so long, so silently resigned ! 
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The pure and lofty constancy of thought. 
Us fleeting trials eager to forget, 
Rise witb clastic power o'er each regret ! 



Fostered in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learned to suffer and be true. 
Deem not my love a frail ephemeral flower, 
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower- 
No ! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies, 
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies! 
Too well 1 feel, with grief's prophetic heart, 
That ne'er to meet in happier days, we part. 
We part! and e'en this agonizing hour. 
When Love first feels his own o'erwhelming 

power. 
Shall soon to Memory's fixed and tearful eye 
Seem almost happiness — for thou wert nigh' 
Yes ! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, 
As days to days all wearily succeed, 
When doomed to weep in loneliness, 'twill be 
Almost hke rapture to have wept with thee. 

" But thou, my Hamet, thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my blighted lot can know, 
Oh ! be thou still the high-souled and the orave 
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave. 
In thy proud fame's untarnished beauty still 
The lofty visions of ray youth fulfil. 
So shall it sooth me 'midst my heart's despair. 
To hold undimmed one glorious image there !" 

" Zayda, my best-beloved ! my words too well, 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must disptl ; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveiled be shown, 
And all its dreams and all its passions known. 
Thou shalt not be deceived — for pure as heaven 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. 
I said my heart was changed — and would thy 

thought 
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes. 
Crushed by the ea.rthquake, strew its ravaged 

plains, 
And such that heart — where desolation's hand 
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand ! 
But Vengeance, fixed upon her burning throne. 
Sits 'midst the wreck in silence and alone. 
And I, in stern devotion at her shrine, 
Each softer feeling, hut my love, resign. 
— Yes ! they whose spirits all my thoughts controul, 
Who held dread converse with my thrilling soul ; 
They, the betrayed, the sacrificed, the brave. 
Who fill a blood-stained and untimely grave. 
Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse. 
In that stern cause, are banished from my course. 
Zayda, thou tremblest — and thy gentle breast 
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest; 
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour. 
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power. 
And, oft recalled, thy voice beguile my lot, 
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot 
! " But the night wanes — the hours too swiftlj Uy 
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh. 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus — in joy or pain 
Oh ! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again t 



TALES AND HISTURIC SCENES. 



113 



Ves, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On tiiat fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, 
Nor doom these mingling tears our last farewell!" 
Is the voice hushed, whose loved, expressive tone, 
Thrilled to her heart, and doth she weep alone? 
Alone she weeiis — that hour of [)arting o'er — 
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no morel 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, 
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair; 
But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power, 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, 
To wake once more that calm, serene delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath 

could blight; 
The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, 
Ere yet the da\'-star burns in all his power. 
Meanwhile through grovesof deep luxuriant shade, 
In the rich foliage of the south arrayed, 
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, 
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave 
On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave. 
Lonely and fair — its fresh and glittering leaves, 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, 
To canopy the dead — nor wanting there 
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, 
Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream, 
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 
There sleep the chiefs of old — their combats o'er, 
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more 1 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
No martial note is in the gale that sighs, 
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, 
'Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest 

bloom, 
As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 
There, where the trees their thickest foliage 

spread 
Dark o'er that sile-it valley of the dead, 
Where two fair p''lars rise, embowered and lone. 
Not yet with ivy ''lad, with moss o'ergrown, 
Young Hamet kneels — while thus his vows are 

poured, 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword. 
— '• Spirit of him, who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, 
And taught my steps the line of light to trace, 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race, 
Hear thou my voice — for thine is with me still, 
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill. 
In tiie deep calm of midnight they are near, 
'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, 
Still murmuring 'vengeance!' — nor in vain the 

call, 4 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall! 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame;, 
Within my heart there lives one only aim, 
12* 



There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone. 
Concentring every thought, it roigns alone. 
I will not weep — revenge, not grief, must be, 
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee; 
But the dark hour of stern delight will come, 
And thou shalt triumph, warrior ! in thy tomb. 

" Thou, too, my brother! thou art passed awat, 
Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day. 
Son of the brave I of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of thy lofty line. 
Nor shall thy deeds be breathless in the lays 
That hold communion with tlie after-days. 
Yet by the wreaths thou might'st have nobly won, 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun. 
By glory lost. I swear, by hope betrayed. 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid ; 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife. 
And to avenge thy death, devote my life. 

" Hear ye my vows, oh spirits of the slain ! 
Hear and be with me on the battle plain ! 
At noon, at midnight still around me bide. 
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died !" 

CANTO IL 



Oh ! ben provvide il Cielo, • 

Ch' uom per delitti mai lielo non sia. 



Aiflert. 



Fair land ! of chivalry the old domain. 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain ! 
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie 
In charms tliat fix th' enthusiast's pensive eye, 
Yet hast thqja scenes of beauty, richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought ; 
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancieni 

name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. 
Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows, 
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore, 
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead? 
Blest be that soil ! where England's heroes share 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there; 
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, 
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days. 
By goatherd lone, and rude serrano sung, 
The cypress dells, and vine-clad rocks among. 
How oft those rocks have echoed to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale ; 
Of him, renowned in old heroic lore. 
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; 
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died 
When "Rio Verde" rolled a crimson tide; 
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might, 
On the green Vega won ir single fight (3) 



Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a calm scene in pastoral beauty lone ; 
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, 
On shield and spear in quiveiing lustre danced, 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above. 
And steeds in goreous trappings, armour bright 
With gold, reflecting every tint of light. 
And many a floating plume, and blazoned shield, 
Diffused romantic splendour o'er the field. 

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood 
start 
Swift to the mantling cheek, and beating heart. 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh, 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And oh ! that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death; 
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour. 
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain. 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain; 
And, 'midst the deepening tumults of the strife, 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in many a broidered fold, 
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold : 
There, imaged on the cross, his form appears. 
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears X'^) 
His form, whose word recalled the spirit, fled. 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead ! 
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardor, which, in days of yore, 
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore ; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal. 
They come, the gallant children of Castile; 
The proud, the calmly dignified: — and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair. 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich province of the western star.(lO) 

But thou, conspicuous 'midst the glittering 
scene, 
Btern grandeur stamped upon thy princely mien ; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest. 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,(ll) 
V-iung Aben-Zurrah ! 'midst that host of foes. 
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance 1 Dis- 
close! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, 
Oil son of Afric, midst the sons of Spain 1 
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, 
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired 1 
How art thou changed! Still first in every fight, 
H.imet the Moor! Castile's devoted knight! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, 
But not the light that shone in days gone by; 
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone, 
But not the soul's expression once thine own, 



Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may 

swayl 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtained 

breast. 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexprest. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain ; 
The Vega's turf is red with many a stain, 
And rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field ; 
But all is peaceful now — the west is bright 
With the rich splendor of departing light; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, 
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high. 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head, (12) 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, 
And Hamet wanders from the camp away. 
In silent musings rapt : — the slaughtered brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews — but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired. 
The wounded sought a shelter — and expired. (13) 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days. 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays, 
Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, 
All is repose, atid solitude serene. 
There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined. 
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, 
The harassed warrior, yielding to the power. 
The mild, sweet influence of the tranquil hour, 
Feels, by degrees, a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm ; 
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, 
The past, the future, are awhile forgot; 
And Hope, scarce owned, yet stealing o'er his 

breast, 
Half dares to whisper, " Thou shalt yet be blest!" 
Such his vague musings — but a plaintive sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round; 
A low half-strifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns: Who shares with him that lonely 

shade 1 
— A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid. 
All rent and stained his broidered Moorish vest, 
The corselet shattered on his bleeding breast ! 
In his cold hand the broken falchion strained, 
With life's last force convulsively retained ; 
His plumage soiled with dust, with crimson dyea, 
And the red lance, in fragments, by his side ; 
He Hes forsaken — pillowed on his shield. 
His helmet raised, his lineaments revealed. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanished now 
The light once throned on that commanding 

brow; 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES, 



115 



And Vcr that fading eye, still upward cast, 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving houghs between, 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace, 
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Some bitter thought of long-departed days. 

" Oh! is it thus," he cries, " we meet at last! 
Friend of my soul, in years for ever past ! 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold, 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath, 
And, with vain pity, soothe the pangs of death 7 
Yet let me bear thee hence — while life remains, 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins. 
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive, 
Hope is not lost, — and Osmyn yet may live ! 
And blest were he, whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Roused by those accpnts, from his lowly bed, 
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague, uncertain gaze. 
His doubtful glance awhile bewildered strays; 
Till, by degrees, a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye, 
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die; 
And the mind's grandeur in its parting hour 
Looks from that brow with more than wonted pow- 
er. 

" Away !" he cries, in accents of command. 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand, 
" Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free, 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee: 
'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies ; 
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er, 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar: 
Be thine existence with a blighted name. 
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's 
fame !" 

The glow hath vanished from his cheek — his eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting energy; 
Frozen and fixed it seems — his brow is chill ; 
One struggle more, — that noble heart is still. 
Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, 
Wert thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, 
More keen, more bitter, than th' envenomed dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart! 
Thy pangs were transient ; his shall sleep no more 
Till life's delirious dream itself is o'er; 
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be t!ie pure altar of the patriot brave. 
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought 
In the high spirit, and unbending thought! 



Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride; 
While his soul rises gathering all its force, 
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been 
His own, unchanged, through many a stDrmy 

scene ; 
Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies; 
Thou still art faithful to afl^ection's ties. 
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, 
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem; 
And soon thy smile, and soft consoling voice, 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands, 
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands ; 
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower. 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the world, 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furled. 
That hour is come — and o'er the arms he bears 
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears: 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride ; 
But night befriends — through paths obscure he 

passed. 
And hailed the lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove. 
The sparkling fountain and the orange-grove; 
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, 
As formed alone for happy hearts to meet. 
For happy hearts'! — not such is hers, who there 
Bends o'er her lute, with dark, unbraided hair; 
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, 
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 
Unheard approach her solitary seat. 
Till his known accents every sense restore — ■ 
" My own loved Zayda! do we meet once morel" 

She starts, she turns — the lightning of surprise, 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes; 
But that is fleeting — it is past — and now 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow ; 
Changed is her aspect, and her tones severe — 
"Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee 
here!" 

"Zayda! what means that glance, unlike ttiine 
ownl 
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone 1 
I will not deem thee changed — but in thy face, 
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace! 
It was not thus in other days we met: 
Hath time, hath absence taught thee to forget? 
Oh! speak once more — these rising doubts dispe' 
One smile of tenderness, and all is well !" 

"Not thus we met in other days!" — oh no* 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe! 
Those days are past — we ne'er shall meet a?aJn 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as ther 



116 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway, 
Leader of hostile bands ! away, away ! 
On in thy path of triumph and of power, 
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower." 

" And thou too changed ! thine early vow forgot ! 
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot! 
Exiled and scorned, of every tie bereft, 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was left ; 
And thou, my soul's last hope, its lingering beam. 
Thou, the good angel of each brighter dream, 
Wert all the barrenness of life possest. 
To wake one soft affection in my breast ! 
That vision ended — fate hath nought in store, 
Of joy or sorrow, e'er to touch me more, 
Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From the stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence adieu 1 
If thou art faithless, who shall e'er be true 7" 

" Hamet! oh wrong me not ! — I too could speak 
Of sorrows — trace them on my faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm! 
But words were idle — read my sufferings there, 
Where grief is stamped on all that one was fair. 

" Oh. wert thou still what once I fondly deemed, 
All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seemed. 
My love had been devotion — till in death 
Thy name hctd trembled on my latest breath. 
But not the chief who leads a lawless band, 
To crush the altars of his native land; 
Th' apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace 
Hath stained the trophies of a glorious race ; 
Not him I loved — but one whose youthful name 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour's cloud 
O'er that young name had gathered as a shroud, 
I then had mourned thee proudly — and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief; 
A noble sorrow, cherished to the last. 
When every meaner wo had long been past. 
Yes ! let affection weep — no common tear 
She sheds, when bending o'er a hero's bier. 
Let Nature mourn the dead — a grief like this. 
To pangs that rend my bosom had been bliss !" 

" High-minded maid ! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow, too dread, too solemn to recall, 
Hath urged me onward, Tiaply to my fall. 
Yet this believe — no meaner aim inspires 
My soul, no dream of poor ambition fires. 
No ! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, 
Behold me but th' avenger of the dead! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred 

knows, 
And in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda wilt thou this stern accuser be"? 
Faise to his country, he is true to thee ! 
Ok, hear me yet! — if Hamet e'er v^'as dear, 
By our first vows, our j^oung affection hear! 



Soon must this fair and royal city fall, 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall; 
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow 
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of wo 1 
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war: 
Fly ! and repose in safety — till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course — and past !" 

"Thou that wilt triumph when the hour H 
come, 
Hastened by thee to seal thy country's doom, 
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety! — Woman too can die ! 
And die exulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine unmurmuring, undismayed to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail, 
When the clouds gather, and the blasts assail; 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Called into life my spirit's latent power; 
But I have energies that idly slept, 
While withering o'er my silent woes I wept, 
And now, when hope and happiness are fled, 
My soul is firm — for what remains to dread 1 
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear, 
If strength and courage dwell not with Despairl" 

" Hamet, farewell ! — retrace thy path again, 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood, in mingling murmurs, tell. 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell ! 
Yes ! on that soil hath Glory's footstep been, 
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene ! 
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering airl 
Unheard, in vain, they call — their fallen son 
Hath stained the name those mighty spirits won, 
And to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeathed his own, through ages yet to be !" 

Still as she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling eye 
Was lighted up with inborn majesty. 
While her fair form and youthful features caugL 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 
Severely beauteous :(14) awe-struck and amazed, 
In silent trance awhile the warrior gazed 
As on some lofty vision — for she seemed 
One all inspired — each look with glory beamed, 
While brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, 
Her soul at once in all its light arose. 
Oh! ne'er had Hamet deemed there dwelt en- 
shrined, 
In form so fragile, that unconquered mind, 
And fixed, as by some high enchantment, there 
He stood — till wonder yielding to despair. 

" The dream is vanished — daughter of my foes! 
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thy words have pierced his soul — ^yet deem thovi 

not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er foigot I 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



in 



formed of happier love ! heroic maid ! 
Ill grief sublime, in danger undismayed. 
Farewell, and be thou blest ! — all words were vain 
For him who ne'er may view that form again; 
Him, whose sole thought, resembling bliss, must be, 
He hath l>een loved, once fondly loved, by thee!" 

And is the warrior gone? — doth Zayda hear 
His parting footstep, and without a tear 1 
Thou weep'st not, lofty maid ! — yet who can tell 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwelll 
ThcTj feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, 
Who best each feeling's agony controul. 
Yes ! we may judge the measure of the grief 
Which finds in Misery's eloquence relief; 
But who shall pierce those depths of silent wo, 
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears 

may flow? 
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, 
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved 1 
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, 
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes, 
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, 
Beholding anguish — all unknown to them. 

Fair city! thou, that 'midst thy stately fanes 
And gilded muiarets, towering o'er the plains. 
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise 
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies, 
While streams, that bear thee treasures in their 

wave, (15) 
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave ; 
Mourn ! for thy doom is fixed — the days of fear 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near ! 
Within, around thee are the trophied graves 
Of kings and chiefs — their children shall be slaves. 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell. 
But there a race that reared them not shall dwell ; 
For 'midst thy counsels Discord still presides, 
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides. 
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeathed a throne, 
Without one generous thought, or feeling high. 
To teach his soul how kings should live and die, 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall, 
Tlie hearts of warriors echo to its call. (16) 
Whose are those tones with power electric fraught, 
To reach the source of pure, exalted thought 1 

See on a fortress-tower, vi-ith beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand ! 
His mien is all impassioned — and his eye 
Filled with a light whose fountain is on high; 
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow. 
And inspiration beams upon his brow, 
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands 

gaze. 
As on some mighty seer of elder days. 

" Saw ye the banners of Castile displayed. 
The helmets glittering, and the line arrayed? 
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?" he cries, 
" Children of conquerors ! in your strength arise! 



O high-born tribes ! oh names unstained by feai 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear 1(17) 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.(18) 
Wake, princes of the land ! the hour is come, 
And the red sabre must decide your doom. 
Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore, 
When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western 

shore ?( 19) 
When the long combat raged on Xeres' p]ain,(20) 
And Afric's tecbir swelled through yielding 

Spain ?(21) 
Is the lance broken, is the shield decayed, 
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismayed, 
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth 
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth 1 
To guard the regions where our fathers' blood 
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each 

flood. 
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil 
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil 1 

" O ye sierras of eternal snow I 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, 
Woods, fountains, rocks, of Spain ! ye saw theii 

might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight ! 
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race, 
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgracel 
With each memorial of the past around. 
Each mighty monument of days renowned ? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold. 
This frame be gathered to its kindred mould! 
And the last life-drop circling through my veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains ! 

" And yet one struggle ere our doom is sealed, 
One mighty eflbrt, one deciding field ! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be, 
In hfe the fettered, or in death the free !" 
Still while he speaks, each gallant heart beats 
high. 
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought, 
And all is hushed around — as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

But when his voice hath ceased, th' impetuous 
cry 
Of eager thousands burst at once on high ; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress, ring around, 
And fair Alhanibra's inmost halls resound. 
" Lead us, O chieftain ! lead us to the strife, 
To fame in death, or liberty in life !" 
O zeal of noble hearts ! in vain displayed ! 
High feeling wasted! generous ho[)e betrayed 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies tliat yet might sav»-. 
E'en now, enthusiasts, while ye rush to clauj- 
Your glorious trial on the field c'. i&ryjB. 



(18 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Vour king hath yielded ! Valour's dream is o'er ;(22) 
Power, wealth, and freedom, are your own no 

more ; 
A nd for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage— the stranger's chains. 



CANTO III. 



Fermossi al fin il cor die baizo tanto. 

IppoUto Pindemonte. 



Heroes of elder days ! untaught to yield. 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field, 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore(23)' 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore, 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued, 
Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude ; 
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, 
In the last chastenuig of your Moslem foes ! 
Rejoice ' — for Spain, arising in her strength, 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length; 
And they in turn the cup of wo must drain, 
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. 
And thou, the warrior born in happy /iour,(24) 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power, 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, 
Conqueror of Kings ! exult, O Cid ! on high. 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile ! 

T.hou in that hour when Mauritania's bands 
Rushed from their palmy groves and burning lands, 
E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain !(25) 
Then, at deep midnight, rose the mighty sound, 
By Leon heard, in shuddering awe profound. 
As through her echoing streets in dread array. 
Beings, once mortal, held their viewless way; 
Voices, from worlds we know not — and the tread 
Of marcliing hosts, the armies of the dead, 
Thua and thy buried chieftains — from the grave 
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, 
And join thy warriors with unearthly miglit 
To aid iho rescue in Tolosa's fight. 
Those days are past— rthe crescent on thy shore, 
O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.(2G) 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower 1(21) 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power ! 
What the glad shout of each exuUing voice 1 
"Castile and Arragon! rejoice, rejoice!" 
Yield' ng free entrance lO victorious foes. 
The Moorish city se(,s her gates unclose. 
And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and 

lance. 
Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. 

Oh ! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, 
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore, 
B.ij'h masque, or solemn festival of yore. 



The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarched by cloudless and cerulean skies. 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, 
Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers ; 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, 
With helmets glittering as they move along, 
With broidered scarf, and gem-bestudded mail, 
And gracefu'. plumage streaming on the gale; 
Shields, gold -embossed, and pennons floating far, • 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, 
All brightened by the rich transparent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth ifluse 
Blend in one scene of glory, formed to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. 
And there too, foremost 'midst the conquering brave 
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs ! wave,. 
There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port 
Seems nor approach to shun, nor praise to court, 
Calm, stern, collected — yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle unconfest7 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, 
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 

Hear'st thou the solemn, yet exulting sound, 
Of the deep anthem floating far around'? 
The choral voices to the skies that raise 
The full majestic harmony of praise? 
Lo ! where surrounded by their princely train, 
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car — lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence ! 

Onward their slow and stately course they bend 
To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, 
Reared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore, 
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast :C28) 
They enter — to their wondering sight is given 
A genii palace — an Arabian heaven !(29) 
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair. 
Its form and colours seem alike of a'-. 
Here by sweet orange-boughs, half shaded o'er, 
The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor. 
Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing 

hues 
The calm transparence of its waves suffuse. 
There, round the court, where Moorish arches bend, 
Aerial columns, richly decked, ascend ; 
Unlike the models of each classic race, 
Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace, 
But answering well each vision that portrays 
Arabian splendour to tlie poet's gazr: 
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all — a mingling glow 
Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below; 
Briglit-streaming from the many-tinctured veins, 
Of precious marble — and the vivid stains 
Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade, 
In gay festoons and fairy knots dis|)layed. 

On through th' enchanted realm, that only seema 
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



119 



TJv.3 royal conquerors pass — while still their sight 
Oil some new wonder ilvvells with fresh deliglit. 
Elere the eye roves through slender colonades, 
O'er howery terraces and myrtle shades, 
Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high 
The vast sierra, mingling with the sky. 
There, scattering far around their diamond spray, 
Clear streams from founts of alabaster pilay, 
Tlirough pillared halls, where, exquisitely wrought, 
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, 
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 
A wild, romantic, oriental mien: 
While many a verse from eastern bards of old, 
Borders the wall in characters of gold. (30) 
Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, 
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 
'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence 

brood, 
And all be lone — a splendid solitude. 
Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, 
From mingling voices of exulting throngs; 
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there,(31) 
And joyous clarions pealing on the air. 
While every hall resounds, " Granada won ! 
Granada ! for Castile and Arragon !"(32) 

'Tis night — from dome and tower, in dazzling 

maze. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ;(33) 
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams. 
From every lattice tremulously streams, 
'Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil ; 
Red flame the torches on each minaret's height, 
And shines each street an avenue of liglit; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
Through the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry. 
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, 
Galled by the chain, though decked awliile with 

flowers ; 
Stern passions working in th' indignant breast, 
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexprest. 
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet, 
Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain reo-ret. 

From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow 
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, 
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene. 
Anguish and shame contending in his mienl 
He, who, of heroes and of kings the son, 
Hath lived to lose wliate'er his fathers won, 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have 

sealed ; 
Wavering alike in counsel and in field; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, 
•Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, 
To Afric's wilds the roya! exile flies,(3-i) 



Yet pauses on his way, to weep in vain. 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around — for him too fair, 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires, 
The old majestic palace of his sires, 
The gay pavilions, and retired alcoves. 
Bosomed in citron and pomegranate groves ; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that winu iu 

light. 
All in one moment bursting on his sight 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanished years, 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
— Weepest thou Abdallah'?— Thou dost well tt. 

weep, 
O feeble heart ! o'er all thou couldst not keep 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. (35) 
The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda's bow- 
er. 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower 
No voice, no step, is in her father's halls. 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate. 
But all is hushed, and void, and desolate. 

There, through each tower and solitary shade. 
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid ; 
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone. 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom uidinown; 
And tKrough the scene she loved, unheeded flows 
The stream v/hose music lulled her to repose. 

But oh ! to him, whose self-accusing thought 
Whispers 't was he that desolation wrought j 
He who his country and his faith betrayed, 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid ; 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale. 
Each wave, low rippling, tells a mournful tale ; 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined. 
In wild exuberance, rustle to the wind. 
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense. 
And seems to murmur — " Thou hast driven hex 

hence !" 
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
— Where hath lost love been once recalled again 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn. 
His name can rouse no feeling now but scorn. 
O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within — and start! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude. 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest , 
Th' avenger's task is closed :(36) — he finds toa 

late. 
It hath not changeci his feciings, but his fate 
His was a lofty spirit, turned aside 
From its bright path by woes, and wiongs, aiw 
pride ; 



120 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And onward, in its new tumultuous course, 
Borne with too rapid and intense a force 
To pause one moment in the dread career, 
And ask — if such could be its native sphere. 
Now are those days of wild delirium o'er, 
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more; 
The feverish energies of passion close, 
A t'd his heart sinks in desolate repose, 
Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not 

less 
From its own deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armour in the sunbeam's glare, 
'Midst the wild Alpuxarras ;(37) there, on high, 
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the 

sky, 
A few brave tribes, with spirit yet unbroke. 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke. 

O ye dread scenes, where Nature dwells alorie. 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, 
Veiled by the mists, and girdled by the storms. 
Ravines, and glens, and deep-resounding caves, 
That hold communion with the torrent-waves ; 
And ye, tli' unstained and everlasting snows, 
That dwell above in bright and still repose; 
To you, in every clime, in every age, 
Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage, 
Hath Freedom led her sons: — untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 
She like the mountain easle still delights 
To gaze exulting from unconquered heights. 
And build her eyrie in defiance proud. 
To dare the wind and mingle with the cloud. 

Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swells. 
Wild Alpuxarras, through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among. 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength hath nerved each 

frame, 
And made each heart the temple of her flame, 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow 
Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the 
earth, 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth. 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear, 
All undismayed, privation and distress. 
Ana smile, the roses of the wilderness. 
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell 
In the deep forest or the cavern cell, 
And rear their offspring 'midst the rocks, to be. 
If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

And 'midst that band of veterans, o'er whose 
head 
iSorrows and years their mingled snow have shed : 
Triey saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
O rovai city ! and the wreck of all 



They loved and hallowed most : — doth aught re- 
main 

For these to prove of happiness or painl 

Life's cup is drained — earth fades before their eye 

Their task is closing — they have but to die. 

Ask ye, why fled tliey hitlierl — that their docm 

Might be to sink unfettered to the tomb. 

And youth, in all its pride of strength is there ; 

And buoyancy of spirit, formed to dare 

And suffer all things, — fallen on evil days. 

Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze. 

As on th' arena, where its powers may find 

Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. 

Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold, 
The high in heart, unconquered, uncontrolled; 
By day the huntsman of the wild— by night, 
Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire's light. 
They from their bleak, majestic home have caught 
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought. 
While all around them bids the soul arise. 
To blend with Nature's dread sublimities. 
— But these are lofty dreams, and must not be 
Where tyranny is near: — the bended knee. 
The eye, whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, 
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; 
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down 
On regal conquerors and defy their frown. 
What warrior-band is toiling to explore 
The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadowed 

o'er 1 
Startling with martial sound each rude recess. 
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness. 
These are the sons of Spain ! — Your foes are near: 
Oh, exiles of the wild sierra! hear! 
Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves, 
Four like the torrent in its might of waves! 

Who leads th' invaders onl — his features bear 
The deep-worn traces of a calm despair; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty — and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. 
'Tis he! 'tis he again ! th' apostate chief; 
He comes in all the sternness of his grief 
He comes, but changed in heart, no inoro to wield 
Falchion for proud Castile in battle-iield, 
Against his country's children — though he leads 
Castilian bands again to hostile deetis : 
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly. 
To rush upon the Moslem spears and die. 
So shall remorse and love thy heart release, 
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for pesA^ 
The mountain-echoes are awake — a sound 
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile.that winds between 
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene. 
There Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen. 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stained tiii 
then; 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



121 



(Vi'ile swt-ll the war-note and the clash of spears, 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, 
Wbcre thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait, 
In diead suspense, the tidings of their fate. 
Blithe,- -whose spirit, panting for its rest, 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast — 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aimed at another's breast, would still advance — 
I!Iourts death in vaiu ; each weapon glances by, 
As if for him 't were bliss too great to die. 
\'es, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee ere Nature's last repose; 
Thou knowe.it not yet what vengeance fate can 

wreak. 
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. 
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell; 
Youth in its light of beaufy there hath past, 
And age, the weary, found repose at last ; 
Till few and faint the Moslem tribes recoil, 
Borne dov?n by numbers and o'erpowered by toil. 
Dispersed, disheartened, through the pass they fly. 
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high: 
While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of de- 
spair. 
Yet he to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home. 
Still urges onward — undismayed to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread; 
But fear is for the happy — they may shrink 
From the steep precipice, or torrent's brink; 
They to whom earth is paradise — their doom 
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb: 
Not such his lot, who, schooled by fate severe, 
"Were but too blest if aught remained to fear.(38) 
Up the rude crags, whose giant-masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below; 
And by the fall whose many-tinctured spray 
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way. 
He holds his venturous track : — supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough ; 
Now by some jutting stone that seems to dwell 
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell : 
Now hath his footstep gained the summit's head, 
A level span, with emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle — there the heath-flowers rise, 
And the rock- rose unnoticed blooms and dies; 
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
[n foam and thunder cleave the mountain side; 
But all is wild beyond — and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
Tiiat dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day 
Earth's chartered guest, the sunbeam, scarce can 

stray 
Around, untrodden woods; and far above, 
Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove, 
Bare granite cliffs, whose fixed, inherent dies 
Rival the tints that float o'er sunmier skies;(39) 
K 13 



And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high 
That seems a part of Heaven's eternity. 

There is no track of man where Hamet stands, 
Pathless the scene as Lybia's desert sands; 
Yet on the calm, still air, a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering- word 
Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown, 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear. 
He follows, reckless if his bands are near. 
On by the rushing stream his way he bends, 
And through the mountain's forest zone ascends; 
Piercing the still and solitary shades 
Of ancient pines, and dark, luxuriant glades, 
Eternal twilight's reign: — those mazes past. 
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, 
And the lone wanderer now hath reached the 

source 
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. 
But there he pauses — for the lonely scene 
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, 
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, 
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, 
So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round, 
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles, and its vain regrets. 
— What earthly feeling unabashed can dwell 
In Nature's mighty presence 1 — 'midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? 
These their own grandeur on the soul impress 
And bid each passion feel its nothingness. 

'Midst the vast marble chffs, a lofty cave 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; 
Shadowed by giant oaks, and rude, and lone. 
It seems the temple of some power unknown, 
Where earthly being may not dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. 
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet, at the tone? 
Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan? 
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled 
The unforgotten accents of the dead? 
E'en thus it rose — and springing from his trance 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; 
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er: 
He rushes on — and lo! wtiere Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughtered sire she bends 
Lost in despair; — yet as a step draws nigh, 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity. 
She lifts her head, and all subdued by grief; 
Views with a wild, sad smile, the once-loved chicl, 
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, 
And every wo forgetting —but the last. 

"Com'stthou to weep with me? — for [ am lefl 
Alone on earth, of everv tie berefl. 



122 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Low lies the warrior on his blood-stained bier; 
His child may call, but he no more shall hear ! 
He sleeps — but never shall those eyes unclose ; 
Twas not my voice that lulled him to repose, 
Nor can it break his slumbers. — Dost thou mourn ? 
And is thy heart, Hke mine, with anguish torni 
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow!" 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well- 
known name, 
When swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came 
Each dark remembrance ; by affliction's power 
Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour. 
To wake with tenfold strength , — 'twas then her 

eye 
■ Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, 
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow. 

" Away ! I dream— oh, how hath sorrows might 
Bowed down my soul and quenched its native light, 
That I should thus forget ! and bid thy tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier ! 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand. 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band ] 
The morn beheld that conflict of despair : — 
'Twas then he fell— he fell!— and thou wert there 1 
Thou! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. 
Was it for this I loved thee?— Thou hast taught 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought: 
'T will soon be past — I bow to Heaven's, decree. 
Which bade each pang be ministered by thee." 

" I had not deemed that aught remained below 
F'or me to prove of yet untasted wo ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 
Oh, hear me yet ! — I would have died to save 
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; 
But in the fierce confusion of the strife, 
In my own stern despair and scorn of life, 
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, 
Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 
And let me share thy sorrows — hadst thou known 
An I have felt in silence and alone, 
E'en thou might'st then relent, and deem at last 
A grief like mine might expiate all the past. 

" But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, 
(30 fondly reared in luxury's guarded bower, 
From every danger, every storm secured, 
How hast i/iou suffered! what hast thou endured! 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee ! 
These rocks th]/ dwelling! thou, who shouldst 

have known 
(..>f life the sunbeam and the smile alone! 
Oh, yet forgive! — be all my guilt forgot, 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!" 

" That lot is fixed ; 't wore fruitless to repine, 
SUll mast a gulf divide my fate from thine. 



I may forgive — but not at will the heart 
Can bid its dark remembrances depart. 
No, Hamet, no ! — too deeply these are traced, 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced ! 
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 
Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep : 
E'en now prophetic of my early doom. 
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 
And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner fee] 
That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 
Soon shah I slumber calmly by the side 
Of him for whom I lived and would have died; 
Till then, one thought shall sooth my orphan lot. 
In pain and peril — I forsook him not. 

" And now, farewell ! — behold the summer-day 
Is passing, Hke the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, 
With the last rites his' bier to sanctify. 
Oh, yet in time, away! — 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare I 
This hour they come — and dost thou scorn to flyl 
Save me that one last pang — to see thee die !" 

E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing 
tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave — they enter — slow their pace, 
And calm, deep sadness marks each mourner's face, 
And all is hushed — till he who seems to wait 
In silent, stern devotedness, his fate, 
Hath met their glance — then grief to fury turns; 
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns. 
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath; 
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death ! 
They close around him : — lofty still his mien, 
His cheek unaltered, and his brow serene. 
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry; 
Fruitless her prayer, unmarked her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to defend, 
Wildly she darts between — each feeling past, 
Save strong afiection, which prevails at last. 
Oh ! not in vain its daring — for the blow 
Aimed at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast, 
Where, in that hour, her head may calmly rest, 
For he is saved : — behold the Zegri baud. 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand , 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er, 
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. 
She, she alone is calm : a fading smile, 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while ; 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell 

" Now is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! 
Yes ! in an hour like this 'twere vam to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried : 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrilled, . 
But sterner duties called — and were fulfilled: 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



12.1 



Am I blest ! — To every holier tie 
My litb was faithful, — and for thee I die ! 
Nor shall the love so purified be vain ; 
Severed on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell ! — And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer, 
Spare hira, my kindred tribe ! forgive and spare ! 
Oh ! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, 
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose." 

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and 
death 
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. 
One pang — 'tis past — her task on earth is done. 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. 
But he for whom she died — Oh ! who may paint 
The grief, to which all other woes were faint? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, 
By the dread Searcher of the soul surveyed ; 
These have no words — nor are by words por- 
trayed. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear 
Far o'er the Alpuxarras ; — wild its tone. 
And rocks and caverns echo " Thou art gone !' 

" Daughter of heroes ! thou art gone 
To share his tomb who gave thee birth ; 

Peace to the lovely spirit flown ! 
It was not formed for earth. 

Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, 

Which brightly past, and left no trace. 

" But calmly sleep ! — for thou art free, 

And hands unchained thy tomb shall raise. 

Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee, 
Life's few and evil days ! 

Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye. 

The Hngering death of hberty. 

" Flower of the desert ! thou thy bloom 

Didst early to the storm resign : 
We bear it still — and dark their doom 

Who can not weep for thine ! 
For us, whose every hope is fled. 
The time is past to mourn the dead. 

" The days have been, when o'er thy bier 
Far other strains than these had flowed; 

Nov?, as a home from grief and fear. 
We hail thy dark abode 1 

We who but linger to bequeath 

Our sons the choice of chains or death. 

" Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years ; 
And for the slumberers of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For thee who ne'er shalt weep again. 



" Have we not seen, despoiled by foes. 

The land our fathers won of yore 1 
And is there yet a pang for those 

Who gaze on this no more 7 
Oh, that hke them 'twere ours to rest ! 
Daughter of heroes! tiiou art blest 1" 

A few short years, and in the lonely cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave. 
Severed in life, united in the tomb — 
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom ! 
Their dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal moan , 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze. 
Amidst those rocks, in long departed days 
(When Freedom fled, to hold, sequestered there. 
The stern and lofty councils of despair), 
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild. 
Who the lone hours with mournful strains be- 
guiled, 
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those 
Who thus have suffered, and who thus repose. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 109, col. 2. 

Not the light zambra. 
Zambra, a Moorish dance. 

Note 2, page 109, col. 2. 
Within the hall of Lions. 
The hall of Lions was the principal 0113 of the 
Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptur- 
ed lions, which supported an alabaster basin in 
the centre. 

Note 3, page 109, col. 2. 

His Aben-Zurrahs there young Hamet leads. 

Aben-Zurrahs; the name thus written is taken 

from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in 

the 3d volume of Bourgoanne's Travels through 

Spain. 

Note 4, page 110, col. 2. 
The Vega's green expanse. 
The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, thp 
scene of frequent actions between the Moors and 
Christians. 

Note 5, page 110, col. 2. 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm. 
An extreme redness in the sky is the presage o' 
the Simoom. — See Bruce's Travels. 

Note 6, page 111, col. 1. 

Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin'o blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert passed. 
Of the Kamsin, a hot south win J, common in 
Egypt we have the followinir account in Volno.v's 



124 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Travels : " These winds are known in Egypt by 
the general name of the winds of fifty days, be- 
cause they prevail more frequently in the fifty days 
preceding and following the equinox. They are 
mentioned by travellers under the name of the 
poisonous winds, or hot winds of the desert : their 
heat is so excessive, that it is diflicult to form any 
idea of its violence without having experienced it. 
When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times 
so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy ; 
the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet 
colour ; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, 
and is filled with a subtile dust, which penetrates 
every where : respiration becomes short and diffi- 
cult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are con- 
tracted and painful, and the body consumed with 
internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; 
marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer ap- 
pears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead 
silence appears every where. The natives of towns 
and villages shut themselves up in their houses, 
and those of the deserts in tents, or holes dug in 
the earth, where they wait the termination of this 
heat, which generally lasts three days. Wo to the 
traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter : he 
must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are some- 
times mortal." 

Note 7, page 112, col. 1. 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep. 
"Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber." — 
Shaksfeare. 

Note 8, page 113, col. 2. 
On the green Vega won in single fight. 
Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from 
a single combat (in which he was the victor) with 
a Moor, on the Vega of Granada. 

Note 9, page 114, col. 1. 
Who drank for man the bitter tup of tears 
" El Rey D. Fernando bolvio a la Vega, y puso 
su Real a la vista de Huecar, aveynte y seys dias 
del mes de Abril, adonde fue fortificado de todo lo 
riecessario ; ponieudo el Christiano toda su gente 
en esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y 
.su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisa un 
Christo crucificado." — Historia de la Guerras Ci- 
tiles de Granada. 

Note 10, page 114, col. 1. , 
From yon rich province of the western star. 
Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the 
evening ox of the west ; in a word, the Hesperia 
)f the Greeks. — See Casiri. Bibliot. Arahico- 
frispana, and Gibbon's Decline and Fall, <^c. 

Note 11, page 114, col. 1. 
ITie snow-white cnarger, and the azure crest. 
" Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada 



librea azul y blanca, todos llenos de rices texidos> 
de plata, las plumas de la misma color; en sus 
adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que 
desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo que lo 
deshazia un selvage con un baston." — GuerraK 
Civiles de Granada. 

Note 12, page 114, col. 2. 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head. 
The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are 
those called Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta. 

Note 13, page 114, col. 2. 

The wounded sought a shelter — and expired. 
It is known to be a frequent circumstance in bat- 
tle, that the dying and the wounded drag them- 
selves, as it were mechanically, to the shelter which 
may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field. 

Note 14, page 116, col. 2. 
Severely beauteous. 
" Severe in youthful beauty." — Milton. 

Note 15, page 117, col. 1. 

Wliile streams, that bear thee treasures in their wave. 
Granada stands upon two hills, separated by thff 
Darro. The Genii runs under the walls. The 
Darro is said to carry with its stream small parti- 
cles of gold, and the Genii, of silver. When 
Charles V. came to Granada with the Empress 
Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made 
of gold, which had been collected from the Darro. — 
See Bourgoanne's and other Travels. 

Note 16, page 117, col. 1. 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call. 
" At this period, while the inhabitants of Gra- 
nada were sunk in indolence, one of those men, 
whose natural and impassioned eloquence has some- 
times aroused a people to deeds of heroism, raised 
his voice, in the midst of the city, and awakened 
the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty thou- 
sand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were 
prepared to sally forth, with the fury of despera- 
tion, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, 
more afraid of his subjects than of the enemy, re- 
solved immediately to capitulate, and made terms 
with the Christians, by which it was agreed that 
the Moors should be allowed the free exercise of 
their religion and laws ; should be permitted, if 
they thought proper, to depart unmolested with 
their effects to Africa; and that he himself, if he 
remained in Spain, should retain an extensive es- 
tate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equi- 
valent in money ff he preferred retiring to Barba- 
ry." — See Jacob's Travels in Spain. 

Note 17, page 117, col. 2. 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of 
the Moors of Granada, all of high distinction. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



13.) 



Note IS, page 117, col. 2. 
Dyed with no blood b\it that of hostile bands. 
The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated 
oy the civil dlssentions which, at this period, pre- 
vailed in the city. Several of the Moorish tribes, 
influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared 
for submission to the Spaniards ; others had em- 
braced the cause of Muley el Zagal. the uncle and 
competitor for the throne of Abdallah (or Abo 
Abdeli), and all was jealousy and animosity. 

Note 19, page 117, col. 2. 
Wlien Tarik's bands o'erspread the western shore. 
Tarik, the first leader of the Moors and Arabs 
into Spain. — "The Saracens landed at the pillar 
or point of Europe: the corrupt and familiar ap- 
pellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes 
the mountain of Tarik, and the intrenchments of 
his camp were the first outline of those fortifica- 
tions, which, in the hands of our countrymen, 
have resisted the art and power of the House of 
Bourbon. The adjacent governors informed the 
court of Toledo of the descent and progress of the 
Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant, Edeco, 
who had been commanded to seize and bind the 
presumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic 
of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal 
summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and 
nobles of the Gothic monarchy, assembled at the 
head of their followers; and the title of king of the 
Romans, which is employed by an Arabic histo- 
rian, may be excused by the close affinity of lan- 
guage, religion, and manners between the nations 
of Spain." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, cf-c. vol. 
ix. pp. 472, 473. 

Note 20, page 117, col. 2. 
When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain. 
"In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of 
Xeres has been illustrated by the encounter which 
determined the fate of the kingdom : the stream of 
the Guadalete, which falls into the bay, divided 
the two camps, and marked the advancing and 
retreating skirmishes of tiiree successive days. 
On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more 
serious and decisive issue." "Notwithstanding 
the valour of the Saracens, they fainted under the 
;veight of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was 
overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead 
?.odics. 'My brethren,' said Tarik to his surviv- 
ing companions, ' the enemy is before you, the sea 
is behind; whither would ye flyl Follow your ge- 
neral ; I am resolved either to lose my life, or to 
trample im the prostrate king of the Romans.' 
Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the 
secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of 
Count Julian with the sons and the brother of 
Witiza. The two princes, and the archbishop 
13* 



of Toledo, occupied the mosi important post: their 
well-timed defection broice ihe ranks of the Cliris- 
tians; each warrior was prompted by fear or sus- 
picion to consult his personal safety; and the 
remains of the Gothic armv were scattered or de- 
stroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three fol- 
lowing days." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, <^-r 
vol. ix. pp. 473, 474. 

Note 21, page 117, col. 2. 

And Afric's tecbir swelled through yielding Spain. 

The tecbir, the shout of onset used by the Sara- 
cens in battle. 

iN'ote22, page 118, coll. 
Your king hath yielded! Valour's dream is o'er. 
The terrors occasioned by this sudden excite- 
ment of popular feeling seem even to have accele- 
rated Abo Abdeli's capitulation. " Aterrado Abo 
Abdeli con el alboroto, y temiendo no ser ya ei 
Dueno de un pueblo amotinado, se apresuro a 
concluir una capitulacion, la menos dura que podia 
obtener en tan urgentes circunstancias, y ofrecio 
entregar a Granada el diaseis de Enero." — Paseos 
en Granada, vol. i. p. 298. 

Note 23, page 118, col. 1. 

Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore. 

The oaken cross, carried by Palagius in battle. 

Note 24, page 118, col. 1. 
And thou, the warrior born in happy hour. 

See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, in which 
that warrior is frequently styled, " he who was born 
in happy hour." 

Note 25, page 118, col. 1. 

E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain ! 

" Moreover, when the Miramamolin brougitt 
over from Africa, against King Don Alphonso, 
the eighth of that name, the mightiest power of 
the misbelievers that had ever been brought against 
Spain, since the destruction of the kings of the 
Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered his coun- 
try in that great danger ; for the night before the 
battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in tiie 
dead of the night, a mighty sound was heard in 
the whole city of Leon, as if it were the tjamp ol 
a great army passing through; and it pr.ssed on 
to the royal monastery of St. Isidro, and there was 
a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they 
called to a priest who was keeping vigils in the 
church, and told him, that the captains of the army 
whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and Count 
Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call 
up King Don Ferrando the Great, who lay huned 
in that ciiurcli, that he might go wifh them to de- 
liver Spain. And on the marrow fha» i?roul latii" 



.■2t> 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



nf the Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein sixty 
thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which 
was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won 
over the Moors." — Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. 

Note 26, page 118, col. 1. 
O realm of evening 
The name of Andalusia, the region of evening 
or of the west, was applied by the Arabs, not only 
to the province so called, but to the whole penin- 
sula. 

Note 27, page 118, col. 1. 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower 1 
" En este dia, para siempre memorable, los 
estandartes de la Cruz, de St. lago, y el de los 
Reyes de Castilla se tremolaron sobre la torre mas 
alta, Uamada de la Vela; y un exercito proster- 
nado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y recono- 
cimiento, asistio a! mas glorioso de los espectacu- 
los." — Paseos en Ch-anada, vol. i. p. 599. 

Note 28, page 118, col. 2. 

They reach those towers— h-regularly vast, 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast. 

Swinburne, after describing the noble palace 
built by Charles V. in the precincts of the Alham- 
bra, thus proceeds: "Adjoining (to the north) 
stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well 
be seen, all huddled together, seemingly without 
the least intention of forming one habitation out 
of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, 
all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by 
a very coarse hand ; yet this is the palace of the 
Moorish kings of Granada, indisputably the most 
curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps 
in Europe. In many countries you ma}' see excel- 
lent modern as well as ancient architecture, both 
entire and in ruins; but nothing to be met with 
any where else can convey an idea of this edifice, 
except you take it from the decorations of an 
opera, or the tales of the genii." — Sioinburne^s 
Travels through Spain. 

Note 29, page 118, col. 2. 
A genii palace — an Arabian heaven. 
"Passing round the corner of the emperor's 
paface, you are admitted at a plain unornamented 
door, in a corner. On my first visit, I confess, I 
was struck with amazement as I stept over the 
threshold, to find myself on a sudden transported 
into a species of fairy land. The first place you come 
to is the court called the Communa, or del Mesucar, 
(hat is, the common baths: an oblong square, with 
't deep basin of clear water in the middle; two 
Flights of marble steps leading down to the bot- 
lom, on each side a parterre of flowers, and a row 
>f orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle 
j'avea with marble; the arches bear upon very 



slight pillars, in proportions and style different 
from all the regular orders of architecture. The 
ceilings and walls are incrustated with fretwork in 
stucco, so minute and intricate, that the most 
patient draughtsman would find it difficult to foi- 
low it, unless he made himself master of the gene 
ral plan.'' — Swinburne^s Travels in Spain. 

Note 30, page 119, col. 1. 
Borders the walls in charactereof gold. 
The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are 
covered with inscriptions in Arabic characters. 
" In examining this abode of magnificence," says 
Bourgoanne, " the observer is every moment 
astonished at the new and interesting mixture of 
architecture and poetry. The palace of the Al- 
hambra may be called a collection of fugitive 
pieces; and whatever duration these may have, 
time, with which every thing passes away, has 
too much contribution to confirm to them that 
title." — See JBourgoanne's Travels in Spain. 

Note 31, page 119, col. 1. 
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there. 
Atabal, a kinf" of Moorish drum. 

Notf 32, page 119, col. 1. 
dranata! for Castile and AiTagon ! 
" Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al 
Alhambra, y encima de la torre de Comares tan 
famosa se levanto la senal de la Santa Cruz, y 
luego el real estandarte de los dos Christianos 
reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, a grandes 
bozes dizieron, ' Granada ! Granada! por su ma- 
gestad, y por la reyna su muger.' La serenissima 
reyna D. Isabel que vio la senal de la Santa Cruz 
sobre la hermosa torre de Comares, y el su estan- 
darte real con ella, se hinco de RodiJIas, y dio in- 
finitas gracias a Dios por la victoria que le avia 
dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real 
de la capilla del rey luego a canto de organo canto 
Te Deum laudamus. Fue tan grande el plazer 
que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron 
mil instrumentos de musica de belicas trompetas. 
Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Chris- 
tianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Muca, tomaroR 
mil dulzaynas y anafiles, sonando grande ruydo de 
atambores por toda la ciudad." — Historia de loi 
Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

Note 33, page 119, col. I. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze. 
" Los cavallcros Moros que avemos dicho, 
aquella noche jugaron galanamente alcancias y 
canas. Andava Granada aquella noche con tanta 
alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que 
se ardia la tierra."' — Historia de las Guerras Ci- 
viles de Granada. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



127 



Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in 
the 3'ears 1775 and 177G, mentions that the anni- 
versary of the surrender of Granada to Ferdinand 
and Isabella was still observed in the city as a 
jreat festival and day of rejoicing; and that the 
populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to 
the Moorish palace. 

Note 34, page 119, col. 1. 
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies. 
" Los Gomeles todos se passaron en Africa, y el 
Rey Chico con ellos, que no quiso estar en Espana, 
y en Africa le mataron lo Moros de aquellas partes, 
porque perdio a Granada." — Guerras Civiles de 
Granada. 

Note 35, page 119, col. 3. 
Of him who knew not, as a man to die. 
Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its 
conquest by Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on 
the hill of Padul to take a last look of his city and 
palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into 
tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, the 
Sultaness Ayxa : " Thou dost well to weep, like 
a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which 
thou knewest not how to defend and die for like a 
man." 

Note 36, page 119, col. 2. 

Th' avenger's task is closed. 

" El rey mando, que si quedevan Zegris, que no 

viviessen en Granada, por la maldad que hizieron 

contra los Abencerrages." — Guerras Civiles de 

Granada. 

Note 37, page 120, col. 1. 
'Midst the wild Alpuxarras. 
" The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of, 
Barbary, and the cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are 
discovered from their summits; they are about j 
seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga 
to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound 
with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. 
In these mountains the wretched remains of the 
Moors took refuge.'' — Bourgoanne's Travels in 
Spain. 

Note 38, page 121, col. 1. 
Were but too blest if aught remained to fear. 

" Plut a Dieu que je craignisse !" — Andra- 
maque. 

Note 39, page 121, col. 1. 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies. 
Mrs. Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks 
of the Rhine, thus describes the colors of the gra- 



nite rocks in the mountains of the Bergstrasse. 
" The nearer we aj)proached these mountains, the 
more we had occasion to admire the various tints 
of their granites. Sometimes tlie precipices were 
of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or 
a blush approaching to lilac, and sometimes gleams 
of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that 
grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless 
and bright, and we were too near these heights to 
be deceived by the illusions of aerial colouring: 
the real hues of their features were as beautiful, as 
their magnitude was sublime." 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



" L' orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tiin- 
nent encore la tete lev6e." Mad. de Slael. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germa- 
ny, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Cre»- 
centius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient 
glory of the republic, made a bold attempt to shake 
ofTthe Saxon yoke, and the authority of the Popes, 
whose vices rendered them objects of universal 
contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in 
the Mole of Hadrian, which, long afterwards, con- 
tinued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, 
after many unavailing attacks upon his fortress, at 
last entered into negotiations; and pledging his 
imperial word to respect the hfe of Crescentius, 
and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortu- 
nate leader was betrayed into his power, and im- 
mediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. 
Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and 
her resentments for the insults to which she had 
been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her hus- 
band and herself On the return of Otho from a 
pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which, perhaps, a 
feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, 
she found means to be introduced to him, and to 
gain his confidence; and a poison administered by 
her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful 
death." — See Sismondi, History of the Italian 
Republics, vol. i. 



PART L 

'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades, 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song. 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears. 
But o'er the wrecks of other years, 



128 MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 




Temples and domes, which long have been 


Crescentius long maintained the strife, 




The soil of that enchanted .scene. 


Which closed but with its martyr's life, 




There the wild fig-tree and the vine 


And left th' imperial tomb a name. 




O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine /I) 


A heritage of holier fame. 




The cypress, in funereal grace, 


There closed De Brescia's mission high, 




Usurps the vanished column's place. 


From thence the patriot came to die :(5) 




O'er fallen shrine, and ruined friczi'-, 


And thou, whose Roman soul the last, 




The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; 


Spoke with the voice of ages past,(6) 




Acanthus-leaves the marble hide, 


Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled 




They once adorned in sculptured pride ; 


To mingle with the glorious dead. 




And nature hath resumed her throne 


That 'midst the world's degenerate race 




O'er the vast works of ages flown. 


They vainly sought a dwelling-place. 




Was it for this that many a pile, 


Within that house of death didst brood 




Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, 


O'er visions to thy ruin wooed. 




To Anio's banks the image lent 


Yet worthy of a brighter lot, 




Of each imperial monument ?(2) 


Rienzi ! be thy faults forgot ! 




Now Athens weeps her shattered fanes, 


For thou, when all around thee lay 




Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 


Chained in the slumbers of decay ; 




And thQ proud fabrics Hadrian reared 


So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 




From Tibur's vale have disappeared. 


Had scarce a tear for liberty ; 




We need no prescient sibyl there 


Alone, amidst the darkness there. 




The doom of grandeur to declare; 


Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair !(7) 




Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 


'Tis morn, and Nature's riche.st dyes 




Reveals some oracle of Time ; 


Are floating o'er Itahan skies ; 




Each relic utters Fate's decree. 


Tints of transparent lustre shine 




The future as the past shall be. 


Along the snow-clad Appenine ; 




Halls of the dead ! in Tibur's vale, 


The clouds have left Soracte's height. 




Who now shall tell your lofty tale? 


And yellow Tiber winds in light. 




Who trace the high patrician's dome, 


Where tombs and fallen fanes have strewed 




The bard's retreat, the hero's home 1 


The wide Campagna's solitude. 




When moss-clad wrecks alone record, 


'T is amidst the scene to trace 




There dwelt the world's departed lord ! 


Those relics of a vanished race ; 




In scenes where verdure's rich array 


Yet o'er the ravaged path of time, 




Still sheds young beauty o'er decay. 


Such glory sheds that brilliant clime. 




And sunshine, on each glowing hill. 


Where nature still, though empires fall, 




'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 


Holds her triumphal festival ; 




Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb. 


E'en Desolation wears a smile, 




Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom, (3) 


Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while , 




Though vanished with the days of old 


And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom, 




Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 


Array the ruin and the tomb. 




And the fair forms by sculpture wrought, 


But she, who from yon convent tower 




Each bodying some immortal thought, 


Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 




Which o'er that temple of the dead, 


She, whose rich flow of raven hair 




Serene, but solemn beauty shed. 


Streams wildly on the morning air ; 




Have found, like glory's self, a grave 


Heeds not how fair the scene below, 




In time's abyss or Tiber's wave:(4) 


Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 




Yet dreams more lofty, and more fair. 


Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains. 




Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er. 


Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 




High thoughts of many a mighty mind, 


And they, the Pleiades of earth, 




Expanding when all else declined. 


The seven proud hills of Empire's birth, 




In twilight years, when only they 


Lie spread beneath : not now her glance 




R,ecalled the radiance passed away, 


Roves o'er that vast, sublime expanse ; 




Have made that ancient pile their home 


Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 




Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 


On Hadrian's massy tomb alone ;" 




There he, who strove, in evil days. 


There, from the storm, when Freedom fltd, 




Again to kindle glory's rays, 


His faithful few Crescentius led ! 




Whose spivit sought a path of light, 


While she, his anxious bride, who now 




For those dim ages far too bright, 


Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 




.,...,,.-,.. 





TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES 



12y 



Bought refuge in the hallowed fane, 
WliR'h then could shelter, not in vain. 
But now the lofty strife is o'er, 
And Liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore, 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 
Could burst the dead repose around, 
Again his native Rome shall see, 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress tower. 
Her ardent heart with joy elate, 
That seems boyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above, 
All vivified with hope and love. 

Fair is her form, and in her eye, 
Lives all the soul of Italy I 
A meaning lofty and inspired, 
As by her native day-star rired; 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassioned thought. 
As fancy sheds in visions bright 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ! ' 

And the dark locks, that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace, 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 
Seem from the fire within to rise ; 
But deepened by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw, 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness ; — 
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see, — the banner of the brave 
D'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
T is lowered — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well tiie martial train descry. 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome. 
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. 
Now from iier watch-tower on the height. 
With step as fabled wood-nymph's light, 
She flies — and swift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress-groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead, 
And paths which track a glowing waste. 
She traverses in breathless haste; 
And liy the tombs where dust is shrined. 
Once teniinted by loftiest mind. 
Still passing on, hath reached the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Thronged are the streets, and, still renewed. 
Rush on the gathering multitude 



Is it their high-souled chief to greet 
That thus the Roman thousands meet 1 
With names that bid their thoughts ascenu, 
Crescentius, thine in song to blend ; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry 1 
— There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread j 
And now a fearful silence round. 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowils, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Gluick is each step, and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high. 
Till rose suspense to agony ! 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, 
And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stand.s, 
With fearless mien, but fettered hands'? 
The ministers of death are nigh. 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind. 
Which was not formed for chains to bind, 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Crescentius! freedom's daring son. 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won 1 
O worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thus must the beam of glory close, 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke 
The soul of Rome indignant woke 1 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone,(8) 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne :(9) 
Th' illusions, that around her cast 
Their guardian spells have long oeen past.(10. 
Thy life hath been a shot star's ray. 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay; 
Thy death at Freedom's rumed shrine 
Must rivet every chain — but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fixed upon the deep blue sky, 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled. 
Around in desolation spread ; 
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, 
Recording triumphs passed away ; 
Works of the mighty and the free. 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be, 
Though their bright course hath left a trace 
Nor years nor sorrows can eflace. 

Why changes now the patriot's mien, 
Erewhile so loftily serene 7 
Thus can approaching death contronl 
The might of that commandinii sou) '' 



130 MRS, HEMANS' WORKS. 


No ! — Heard 5^e not that thrilling cry 


Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled. 


Which told of bitterest agony ? 


When thou wert Freedom's favaured child: 


He Iieard it, and, at once subdued, 


Though fane and tomb alike are low, 


Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 


Time hath not dimmed thy sunbeam's glow, 


He heard it, and his heart too well 


And robed in that exulting ray. 


Whence rose that voice of wo can tell ; 


Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay; 


And 'midst the gazing throngs around 


yet, though by thy sorrows bent. 


One well known form his glance hath found ; 


In nature's pomp magnificent ; 


One fondly loving and beloved, 


What marvel if, when all was lost. 


In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 


Still on thy bright enchanted coast. 


Yes, in the wildness of despair, 


Though many an omen warned him thence. 


She, his devoted bride is there. 


Lingered the lord of eloquence !(11) 


Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, 


Still gazing on the lovely sky, 


The light of frenzy in her eyes : 


Whose radience wooed him — but to die ; 


But ere her arms can clasp the form 


Like him who would not linger there. 


Which life ere long must cease to warm ; 


Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair 1 


Ere on his agonizing breast 


Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, 


Her heart can heave, her head can rest ; 


Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell 1 


Checked in her course by ruthless hands, 


Hath not thy pure and genial air 


Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 


Balm for all sadness but despair ?(12) 


With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, 


No ! there are pangs, whose deep-worn trace 


Frozen and fixed in horror's trance; 


Not all thy magic can efface 1 


Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, 


Hearts, by unkind ness wrung, may learn 


And thought o'erwhelmed, and feeling dead. 


The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 


And the light waving of her hair. 


Time may steal on with silent tread, 


And veil, far floating on the air. 


And dry the tear that mourns the dead ; 


Alone, in that dread moment, show 


May change fond love, subdue regret 


She is no sculptured form of wo. 


And teach e'en vengeance to forget ; 


The scene of grief and death is o'er. 


But thou. Remorse ! there is no charm, 


The patriot's heart shall throb no more : 


Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 


But hers — so vainly formed to prove 


Vain are bright suns and laughing skies, 


The pure devotedness of love. 


To sooth thy victim's agonies : 


And draw from fond affection's eye 


The heart once made thy burning throne, 


All thought sublime, all feeling high ; 


Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 


When consciousness again shall wake 


In vam for Otho's joyless eye 


Hath now no refuge — but to break. 


Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 


The spirit long inured to pain 


As through her landscapes' rich array 


May smile at fate in calm disdain ; 


Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 


Survive its darkest hour, and rise 


Tbv f->rm, Crescentius on his sight 


In more majestic energies. 


Ri-sea wh-jn nature laughs in light, 


But in the glow of vernal pride, 


Glides round him at the midnight hour 


If each warm hope at once hath died, 


Is present in his festal bower. 


Then sinks the mind, a blighted flowei. 


With awful voic? and frowning mien, 


Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; 


By all but him unheard, unseen, 


A broken gem, whose inborn light 


Oh ! thus to shadows of the grave 


Is scattered — ne'er to re-unite. 


Be every tyrant still a slave ! 




Where through Gargano's woody dells. 




O'er bending oaks the north-wind swelk/13) 




A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 


PART II. 


Is bosomed in umbrageous glook-v, 


rtAST thou a scene that is not spread 


In shades that saw him live and d'? 


With records of thy glory fled 7 


Beneath their waving canopy. 


A monument that doth not tell 


'Tvvas his, as legends tell, to sharfl 


The tale of liberty's farewell 1 


The converse of immortals there ;' 


Italia! thou art but a grave 


Around that dweller of the wild 


Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave. 


There "bright appearances" have si k t.('4) 


And nature gives her treasures birth 


And angel-wings, at eve, have been 


O'er all that hath been great on earth. 


Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 





TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. HI 


Aiiii oft (r 3m that secluded bovver 


A spirit's voice from worlds unknown. 


liath breathed, at midnight's cahner hour, 


Deep thrilling power in every tone 1 


A swell ot viewless harps, a sound 


Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow 


Of warbled anthems pealing round. 


Hath language only given to wo ; 


Oh, none but voices of the sky 


And if at times its wakening swell 


Might wake that thrilling harmony, 


Some tale of glory seems to tell, 


Whose tones, whose very echoes made 


Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 


An Eden of the lonely shade ! 


Lost in a dirge's harmony : 


Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 


Oh ! many a pang the heart hath proved 


Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps 1 


Hath deeply suffered, fondly loved, 


Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 


Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 


And veiled his low, sepulchral stone : 


Such deep impassioned eloquence ! 


Yet still the spot is holy, still 


Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy — 


Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 


He is no child of hope and joy; 


And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 


Though few his yeai s, yet have they been 


Aerial vesper-hymns may hear 


Such as leave traces m the mien. 


Around those forest-precincts float. 


And o'er the roses ot our prime 


Soft, solemn, clear, — but still remote. 


Breathe other blights than those of time. 


Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint 


Yet, seems his spirit wild and proud, 


To that rude shrine's departed saint, 


By grief unsoftened and unbowed. 


And deem that spirits of the blest 


Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 


There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 


A sternness foreign to the heart. 


And thither Otho now repairs. 


And rushing with an earthquake's power, 


To sooth his soul with vows and prayers ; 


That makes a desert in an hour ; 


And if for him, on holy ground, 


Rouse the! dread passions in their course, 


The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, 


As tempest wake the billows' force ! — 


'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed, 


'Tis sad, on youthful Guide's face, 


Where calmly sleep the sainted dead. 


The stamp of woes like these to trace. 


She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 


Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind 


With Nature's lonely majesty. 


Dark as the ruins of the mind "? 


Vain, vain the search — his troubled breast 


His mien is lofty, but his gaze 


No vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 


Too well a wandering soul betrays : 


The weary pilgrimage is o'er 


His full, dark eye at times is bright 


The hopes that cheered it are no more. 


With strange and momentary light 


Then sinks his soul, and day by day, 


Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 


Youth's buoyant energies decay. 


O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow : 


The hght of health his eye hath flown. 


And oft his features and his air 


The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. 


A shade of troubled mystery wear, 


Joyless as one on whom is laid 


A glance of hurried wildne.ss, fraught 


Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 


With some unfathomable thought. 


Extending its mysterious power 


Whate'er that thought, still unexpressed. 


O'er every scene, o'er every hour; 


Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 


E'en thus he withers ; and to him, 


The pride his haughty brow reveals, 


Italia's briUiant skies are dim. 


All other passion well conceals. 


He withers — in that glorious clime 


He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 


Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 


In music's eloquence alone ; 


And suns, that shed on all below 


His soul's deep voice is only poured 


Their full and vivifying glow, 


Through his full song and swelling chord 


From him alone their power withhold, 


He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 


And leave his heart in darkness cold. 


Of courtiers with a proud disdain; 


Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair, 


And, save when Otho bids his lay 


He only seems to perish there. 


Its half unearthly power essay, 


Yet sometimes will a transient smile 


In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 


Play o'er his faded cheek awhile. 


His haunts are wild and lonely still. 


When breathes his minstrel-boy a strain 


Far distant from the heedless throng, 


Of power to lull all earthly pain; 


He roves old Tiber's banks along. 


So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 


Where Empire's desolate remains 


Th' ethereal music of a dream, 


Lie scattered o'er the silent plains " 





132 MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 


Or, lingering 'midst each ruined shrine 


His lip is quivering, and his breast 


That strews the desert Palatine, 


Heaves with convulsive pangs oppressed; 


With mournful, yet commanding mien, 


Now his dim eye seems fixed and glazed, 


Like the sad Genius of the scene, 


And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 


Entranced in awful thought appears 


And as, with unavailing aid. 


To commune with departed years. 


Around him throng his guests dismayed, 


Or at the dead of night, when Rome 


He sinks — while scarce his struggling breatV 


Seems of heroic shades the home ; 


Hath power to falter — " This is death!" 


When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls 


Then rushed that haughty child of song 


The mighty to their ancient halls ; 


Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng; 


When hushed is every meaner sound, 


Filled with a strange delirious light. 


And the deep moonlight-calm around 


His kindling eye shone wildly bright. 


Leaves to the solemn scene alone 


And on the sufferer's mien awhile 


The majesty of ages flown ; 


Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 


A pilgrim to each hero's tomb. 


A feverish glow of triumph dyed 


He wanders through the sacred gloom ; 


His burning cheek, while thus he cried : — 


And 'midst those dwellings of decay, 


"Yes! these are death-pangs — on thy brow 


At times will breathe so sad a lay. 


Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 


So wild a grandeur in each tone, 


Oh! well was mixed the deadly draught, 


'Tis like a dirge for empires gone! 


And long and deeply hast thou quaffed ; 


Awake thy pealing harp again. 


And bitter as thy pangs may be, 


But breathe a more exulting strain, 


They are but guerdons meet from me! 


Young Guido ! for awhile forgot 


Yet, these are but a moment's throes. 


Be the dark secrets of thy lot. 


Howe'er intense, they soon shall close 


And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 


Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath, 


To speed the banquet's hour along ! — 


31y life hath been a lingering death ; 


The feast is spread ; and music's call 


Since one dark hour of wo and crime, 


Is echoing through the royal hall. 


A blood-spot on the page of time! 


And banners wave, and trophies shine, 


"Deemest thou my mind of reason void 


O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 


It is not phrenzied, — but destroyed ! 


And Otho seeks awhile to chase 


Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought,— 


The thoughts he never can erase, 


That work of ruin thou hast wrought! 


And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep 


" The secret of thy doom to tell, 


Rise like a spirit on his sleep. 


My name alone suffices well ! 


The still small voice of conscience die, 


Stephania ! — once a hero's bride ! 


Lost in the din of revelry. 


Otho I thou knowest the rest — he died. 


On his pale brow dejection lowers, 


Yes! trusting to a monarch's word. 


But that shall yield to festal hours; 


The Roman fell, untried, unheard! 


A gloom is in his faded eye. 


And thou, whose every pledge was vain, 


But that from music's power shall fly: 


How couldsti/ioM trust in aught again"? 


His wasted cheek is wan with care. 


" He died, and I was changed — my soul, 


But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 


A lonely wanderer, spurned control. 


Wake, Guido '. wake thy numbers high 


From peace, and light, and glory hurled, 


Strike the bold chord exultingly! 


The outcast of a purer world. 


And pour upon th' enraptured ear 


I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown. 


Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 


And lived for one dread task alone. 


Let the rich mantling goblet flow. 


The task is closed — fulfilled the vow, 


And banish all resembling wo ; 


The hand of death is on thee now. 


And, if a thought intrude, of power 


Betrayer! in thy turn betrayed, 


To mar the bright convivial hour. 


The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! 


Still must its influence lurk unseen. 


Thine hour is come — the time hath been 


And cloud the heart — but not the mien! 


My heart had slirunk from such a scene ; 


Away, vain dream ! — on Otho's brow, 


That feeling long is past — my fate 


Still darker lower the shadows now; 


Hath made me stern as desolate. 


Changed are his features, now o'erspread 


" Ye that around me shuddering stand, 


With the cold paleness of the dead ; 


Ye chiefs and princes of the land! 


Now crimsoned with a hectic dye, 


Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom? 


The burning flush of agony! 


— Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb! 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



133 



He sleeps unbonorcd — yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom finds a home, 
His grave is that of glory — Rome ! j. 
Are not the great ol old with her, 
That city of the sepulchre 1 
Lead me to death ! and let me share 
The slumbers of the mighty there!" 
The day departs — that fearful day 
Fades in cahn lovehness away: 
From purple heavens its lingering beam 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream, 
And softly tints each Roman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still, 
As if, unstained by crime or wo. 
Its hours had passed in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly — it hath been 
Marked with a strange and awful scene: 
One guilty bosom throbs no more. 
And Otho's pangs and hfe are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run, 
Released from anguish by thy foes. 
Daughter of Rome I shalt find repose. — 
Yes! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh! tlius with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away. 
Like the wild billows as they sweep 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 128, col. L 

O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine. 

J'etais alle passer quelques jours seul a Tivoli. 
Je parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la 
Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie au milieu de 
ma course, ie me refugiai dans les Salles des 
Thermes voisms du Pecile (monumens de la 
villa), sous un figuier qui avait renverse Ie pan 
d'un mur en s'clevant. Dans un petit salon octo- 1 
gone, ouvcrt devant moi, une vigne vierge avait! 
perce la voute de I'edifice, et son gros cep lisse, ' 
rouge, et tortueux, montait Ie long du mur comme 
un serpent. Autour de moi, atravers les arcades 
des ruincs, s'ouvraient des points de vue sur la 
Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau 
remplissaient les salles dcsertes ou venaient se 
refugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens 
de mafonnerie claient tapisses de feuilles de sco- 
14 



lopcndre, dont la verdure satinee se dcssmait 
comme un travail en mosaique sur la blanciieur 
des marbres: 9a et la de hauts cypres remi)!acaicnl 
les colonnes tombees dans ces palais de la Mort, 
I'acanthe sauvage rampait a leurs pieds, sur dea 
debris, comme si la nature s'etait plu a reproduire 
sur ces chefs-d'oeuvre mutiles d'architecture, I'orna- 
ment de leur beaute passee." — Chateaubriand, 
Souvenirs d'ltalie. 

Note 2, page 128, col. 1. 
Of each imperial monument. 
The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa 
were copies of the most celebrated scenes and 
edifices in his dominions ; the Lycseum, the Aca- 
demia, the Pyrtaneum of Athens, the Temple of 
Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c. 

Note 3, page 128, col. 1. 
Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom. 
The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of 
St. Angelo, was first converted into a citadel by 
Belisarius, in his successful defence of Rome 
against the Goths. "The lover of the arts," says 
Gibbon, " must read with a sigh, that the workg 
of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their 
lofty pedestals, and hurled-into the ditch on the 
heads of the besiegers." He adds, in a note, that 
the celebrated Sleeping Faun of the Barbarini 
palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the 
ditch of St. Angelo was cleansed under Urban 
VIII. In the middle ages, the moles Hadriani 
was made a permanent fortress by the Roman 
government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were 
added to the original edifice, which had been 
stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pil- 
lars, and the brazen cone which crowned its sum- 
mit 

Note 4, page 128, col. 1. 

Have found, like glory's self, a grave, 

In time's abyss, or Tiber's wave. 
"Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus 
admirables statues ont etes jetees dans Ie Tibre, 
et sont cachees sous ses flots. GLui sait si, pour les 
chercher, on ne Ie detournera pas un jour de son 
litl Mais quand on songe que les chef-d'osuvres 
du genie humain sont peutetre la devant nous, et 
qu'un ceil plus per9ant les verrait a travers le3 
ondes, I'on eprouve je ne sais quelle emotion qui 
renait a Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et 
fait trouver une societe pour la pensee dans les 
objets physiques, muets partout aUleurs." — Mad. 
de Slael. 

Note 5, page 128, col. 2. 

Tliere closed Ue Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die. 

Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquew 



134 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



champion of Roman liberty, after unremitting 
efforts to restore the ancient constitution of the 
repuWic, was put to death in the year 1155 by 
Adrian IV. This event is thus described by 
Sismondi, Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, 
vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. " Le prefect demeura 
dans le chateau Saint Ange avec son prisonnier ; 
il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinee 
aux executions, devant la Porte du People. Ar- 
naud de Brescia, eleve sur un bdcher, fut attache 
a un poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit mesu- 
rer des yeux les trois longues rues qui oboutis- 
soient devant son echafaud; elles font presqu' une 
moiete de Rome. C'est la qu'habitoient les 
hommesqu'il avoit si souvent appeles a la biberte. 
lis reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger 
de leur legislateur. Le tumulte de I'execution et 
la flamme du bucher reveillerent les Roniains ; i!s 
s'armerent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard; et les 
cohortes du pape repoussorent, avec leurs lances, 
ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du 
moins recueillir ses cendres comme de precieuses 
reliques." 

Note 6, page 128, col. 3. 
Spoke with the voice of ages past. 
"Posterity will compare the virtues and failings 
of this extraordinary man ; but in a long period 
of anarchy and servitude the name of Rienzi has 
often been celebrated as the deliverer of his coun- 
try, and the last of the Roman patriots." — Gibbon's 
Decline and Pall, (^c. vol. xii. p. 362. 

Note 7, page 128, col. 2. 
Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair. 
" Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui hon- 
teusement jusqu'a Venouse: cet homme de la 
plus basse naissance, n'avoit ete eleve au consulat 
que pour mortifier la noblesse: mais le senat ne 
voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe ; 11 vit 
combien il etoit necessaire qu'il s'attirat dans cette 
occasion Ja confiance du peuple, il alia au-devant 
Varron, et le remercia de ce qu'il n'avoit pas 
disespere de la republique." — Montesquieu. Gran- 
deur et Decadence des Romains. 

Note 8, page 129, col. 2. 
Vain dream 1 the sacred shields are gone. 
Of the sacreu bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, 
which were kept in the temple of Mars, Plutarch 
gives the following account. " In the eighth year 
of Numa's reign a pestilence prevailed in Italy; 
Rome also felt its ravages. While the people 
were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen 
buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. 
Of this he gave a very wonderful account, re- 
ceived from Ejreria and the Muses: that tlie buck- 
!ci was sent down for the preservation of the city, 



and should be kept with great care: that eleven 
others should be made as like it as possible 
in size and fashion, in order that if any person 
were disposed to steal it, he might not be able to 
distinguish that which fell from heaven from the 
rest. He further declared, that the place, and the 
meadows about it, where he frequently conversed 
with the Muses, should be consecrated to those 
divinities ; and that the spring which watered the 
ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal 
Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their temple. 
The immediate cessation of the pestilence is said 
to have confirmed the truth of this account." — 
Life of Numa. 

Note 9, page 129, col. 2. 

Sunk is the crowning city's tlirone. 

"Who hath taken counsel against Tyre, the 

crowning citrj, whose merchants are princes, 

whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth 1" 

— Isaiah, chap, xxiii. 

Note 10, page 129, col. 2. 
Their guardian spells have long been past. 
" Un melange bizarre de grandeur d'ame, et de 
foiblesse entroit des cette epoque (I'onzieme siecle) 
dans le caractere des Romains. — Un mouvement 
genereux vers les grandes choses faisoit place 
tout-a-coup a I'abattement; ils passoient de la 
liberte la plus orageuse, a la servitude la plus 
avilissante. On auroit dit que les ruines tenoient 
ses habitaus dans les sentiment de leur impuiset 
les portiques deserts de la capitale du monde, en- 
tresance; au milieu de ces monumens de leur 
domination passee, les citoyens e.prouVoient d'une 
maniere trop dccourageante leur propre nullite. 
Le nom des Romains qu'ils portoient ranimoil 
frequemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ra- 
nime encore aujourd'hui; mais bientot la vue de 
Rome, du Forum desert, des sept collines de nou- 
veru rendues au paturage des troupeaux, des tem- 
ples desoles, des monumens tombant en ruine, les 
ramenoit a sentir qu'ils n'etoient plus les Romains* 
d' autrefois." — Sismondi. Histoire des Repub-- 
liques Italiennes, vol. i. p. 172. 

Note 11, page 130, col. 2. 

Lingered the lord of eloquence'? 

" As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, 
finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, 
coasted along to Circaeum with a favourable wind. 
The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from 
thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, 
or had not yet given up all hopes in C.-nsar, he dis- 
embarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs on 
foot, as if Rome had been the place .rf his desti- 
nation. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left 
that road and made again for the sea. He passeiJ 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



135 



il)o night in the most perplexing and horrid thoughts; 

nsoniuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go 
privately into CiEsar's house and stab himself up- 
on the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the di- 
vine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was 
deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other 
alternatives equally distressful presented them- 
selves. At last he put himself in the hands of his 
servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to 
Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the 
summer, when the Etesian winds set in. There 
was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which 
a flight of crows came with great noise towards 
Cicero's vessel as it was making land. They perch- 
ed on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat 
croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. 
All looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero 
went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down 
to repose himself. In the mean time a number of 
crows settled in the chamber-window, and croak- 
ed in the most doleful manner. One of them even 
entered it, and alighting on the bed, attempted, 
with its beak, to draw off the clothes with which 
he had covered his face. On sight of this, the 
servants began to reproach themselves. ' Shall 
we,' said they, ' remain to be spectators of our 
master's murder ? Shall we not protect him, so 
innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the 
brute creatures give him marks of their care and 
attention V Then, partly by entreaty, partly by 
force, they got him into his litter, and carried him 
towards the sea." — Plutarch. Life of Cicero. 

Note 12, page 130, col. 2. 
Balm for all sadness but despair '{ 
" Now purer air 
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair." — Milton. 

Note 13, page 130, col. 3. 
O'er bending oaks the north-wind swells. 
Mount Gargano. " This ridge of mountains 
forms a very large promontory advancing into the 
Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on 
the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severe. 
We took a ride into the heart of the mountains 
through shady dells and noble woods, which brought 
to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient 
times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the 
rugged sides of Garganus. 

'Aquilonibus 
Querceta Gargani laborant, 
Et foliis viduantur orni.' — Horace. 
" There is a respectable forest of evergreen and 
common oak, pine,hornbeam,chcstnut, and manna- 
ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cul- 
tivated, and seem to be blest with lu.xuriant vege- 
tation." — Swinburne's Travels. 



Note 14, page 130, col. 2. 
There " bright appearances" have smiled. 
"In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
His bright appearances, or footstep trace'?" — Milton 



THE LAST BANaUET OF ANTONY 
AND CLEOPATRA. 



" Antony, concluding that he could not die more 
honourably than in battle, determined to attack 
Ccesar at tlie same time both by sea and land. The 
night preceding the execution of this design, he 
ordered his servants at supper to render him their 
best services that evening, and fill the wine round 
plentifully, for the day following they might belong 
to another master, whilst he lay extended on the 
ground, no longer of consequence either to them 
or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept 
to hear him talk thus ; which when he perceived, 
he encouraged them by assurances that his expec- 
tations of a glorious victory were at least equal to 
those of an honourable death. At the dead of 
night, when universal silence reigned through the 
city, a silence that was deepened by the awfui 
thought of the ensuing day, on a sudden was heard 
the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which 
resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This 
tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the 
whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to 
the enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this 
prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom 
Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken 
him." — Lanffhorne's Plutarch. 



Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 

O stately Alexandria! — yet the sound 
Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Swelled from thy splendid fabrics far around 
O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, 

In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 

A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 
O'er many a column rich with precious dyes. 
That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing skies. 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance played 

O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillaied 
scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art arrayed 

In godlike beauty, awfully serene. 
Oh ! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined 

Round that luxurious board ! — in every face, 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind 

Rising by fits, the searching eye mipii. trace, 



I3fi 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Though vainly miisked in smiles which are not 

mirth, 
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes of 

earth. 

Their brows are bound with wreaths whose tran- 
sient bloom 

May still survive the wearers — and the rose 
Perchance may scarce be withered, when the tomb 

Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle — and may set 

In death — but fill the mantling wine-cup high ! 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 

Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possessed. 
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest. 

Its joys ! oh ! mark yon proud triumvir's mien, 

And read their annals on that brow of care ! 
'Midst pleasure's lotus-bowers his steps have been ; 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by ; 
I'here is delusion in its meteor-fire. 

And all within is shame, is agony ! 
Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow, 
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper wo. 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow 
To that ascendant and undying name, 

Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now. 
Thy glory is departed — but hath left 

A lingering light around thee — in decay 
Not less than kingly, though of all bereft. 

Thou seem'st as empire had not passed away. 
Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate, 
A deep, prophetic dread of still mysterious fate ! 

But thou, enchantress-queen! whose love hath 
made 

Ills desolation — thou art by his side. 
In all thy sovereignty of charms arrayed. 

To meet the storm with still unconquered pride. 
Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain 

Of error be upon thee, there is power 
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 

O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour 
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye 
E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity, 

Ttiine aspect, all impassioned, wears a light 

Inspiring and inspired — thy cheek a dye, 
W hich rises not from joy, but yet is bright 

With the deep glow of feverish energy. 
Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 

With an immortal fire — in every beam 
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, 

But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; 



For thou with death hast communed, to attain 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from 
the chain.(l) 

And the stern courage by such musings lent, 

Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the majesty of mighty woes ! 
While he, so fondly, fatally adored, 

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet. 
Till scarce the soul, that once exulting soared, 

Can deem the day-star of its glory set ; 
Scarce his charmed heart believes that power can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him, thus fondly loved bv 
thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around, 

Which mark that ruined leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound 

Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests !" he cries, 

" Q,uaft', ere we part, the generous nectar deep ! 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies, 

Your chief, in cold forgetfulness, may sleep, 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea, 
And the red bowl again is crowned — but not for 
me. 

"Yet weep not thus — the struggle is not o'er! 

O victors of Philippi ! many a field 
Hath yielded palms to us : — one effort more. 

By one stern conflict must our doom be sealed J 
Forget not, Romans ! o'er a subject world 

How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though from his eyrie of dominion hurled. 

Now burst the tempest on his crested head ; 
Yet sovereign still, if banished from the sky, 
The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop — but 
die." 

The feast is o'er. 'T is night, the dead of night — 

Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep; 
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of sleep: 
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams, 

The battle signal to decide their doom. 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams; 

Rest, that shall soon be calmer in the tomb, 
Dreams, dark and ominous, but there to cease, 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumberers, wake! Hark! heard ye not a 
sound 
Of gathering tumult? — near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around. 
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and 
shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the treao 
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



13'; 



(/f ^li[)e, ami lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread, 

Is heard upon the midnight air to float; 
And voices, clamorous as in phrcnzied mirth, 
Mingle their thousand tones wliich are not of the 
earth. 

These are no mortal sounds — their thrilling strain 

Hath more mysterious power, and birth more 
high ; 
And the deep horror chilling every vein 

Owns them of stern terrific augury. 
Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, 

ye invisible and awful throng ! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Caesar's camp exulting move along. 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony ! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals — thy doom — " Despair 
and die !"(2) 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 136, col. 2. 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain. 

Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, 
and being desirous to know which was least pain- 
ful in the operation, she tried them on the capital 
convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their 
operation, she found to be attended with violent 
pain and convulsions ; such as were mildest were 
slow in their effect : she therefore applied herself 
to the examination of venomous creatures; at 
length she found that the bite of the asp was the 
most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a 
gracuai kind of lethargy. — See Plutarch. 

Note 2, page 137, col. 1. 

Despair and die! 

" To-mon'ow in the battle think on me, 

And fall thy edgeless sword ; despair and die !" 

Richard III. 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 



After describing the conquest of Greece and 
Italy by the German and Scythian hordes, united 
under the command of Alaric, the historian of 
" The Decline and Pall of the Roman Empire," 
thus proceeds : — " Whether fame, or conquest, or 
ncnes, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that 
objoct with an indefatigable ardor, which could 
neither be quelled by adversity, nor satiated by 
success. No sooner had he reached the extreme 
land of Italy than he was attracted by the neigh- 
bouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. 
Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered 
only as an intermediate step to the important ex- 
L 14* 



pedition which he already meditated against tha 
continent of Africa. The straits of Rhcgium and 
Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the 
narrowest passage, about one mile and a half 
broad ; and the fabulous monsters of the deep, tlie 
rocks of Scylla, and the whirlpool of Charybdis, 
could terrify none but the most timid and unskil- 
ful mariners : yet, as soon as the first division of 
the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, 
which sunk or scattered many of the transports : 
their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new 
element ; and the whole design was defeated by 
the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after 
a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests 
The ferocious character of the barbarians was dis- 
played in the funeral of a hero, whose valor and 
fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. 
By the labour of a captive multitude they forcibly 
diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river 
that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal 
sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and 
trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant 
bed; the waters were then restored to their natu- 
ral channel, and the secret spot, where the re- 
mains of Alaric had been deposited, was for ever 
concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prison- 
ers who had been employed to execute the work." 
— See The Decline and Fall of the Roman Em- 
fire, vol. v. p. 329. 



Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blastl 
The march of hosts, as Alaric passed 1 
His steps have tracked that glorious clime, 
The birth-place of heroic time; 
But he, in northern deserts bred, 
Spared not the living for the dead,(l) 
Nor heard the voice, whose pleading cries 
From temple and from tomb arise. 
He passed — the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains ; 
And woke they not — the brave, the free, 
To guard their own Thermopylse? 
And left they not their silent dwelling. 
When Scythia's note of war was swelling 1 
No ! where the bold Three Hundred slept. 
Sad freedom battled not — but wept ! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; 
Nor one high soul from slumber broke, 
When Athens owned the northern yoke. 

But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, scorning to despair? 
O city of the seven proud hills! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, 
As doth a clarion's battle-call. 
Didst thou too, ancient empress, falll 
Did not Camillus from the chain 
Ransom ihy Capitol agaiiil 





138 MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 


Oh! who shall tell the days to be, 


Oh ! not for them hath Genius given 


No patriot rose to bleed for thee 7 


To Parian stone the fire of heaven, 


Heard ye the Gothic trumpet^ blast 1 


Enshrining in the forms he wrought 


The march of hosts, as Alaric passed! 


A bright eternity of thought. 


That fearful sound, at midnight deep,(2) 


In vain the natives of the skies 


Burst on th' eternal city's sleep : 


In breathing marble round them rise. 


How woke the mighty? She, whose will 


And sculptured nymphs, of fount or glade, 


So long had bid the world be still. 


People the dark-gioen laurel shade ; 


Her sword a sceptre, and her eye 


Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye 


Th' ascendant star of destiny! 


To visions of divinity ; 


She woke — to view the dread array 


And rude his hand which dares deface 


Of Scythians rushing to their prey, 


The models of immortal grace. 


To hear her streets resound the cries 


Arouse ye from your soft delights ! 


Poured from a thousand agonies! 


Chieftains ! the war-note's call invites; 


While the strange light of flames, that gave 


And other lands must yet be won, 


A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, 


And other deeds of havoc done. 


Bursting in that terrific hour 


W arriors ! your flowery bondage break. 


From fane and palace, dome and tower, 


Sons of the stormy north, awake ! 


Revealed the throngs, for aid divine 


The barks are launching from the steep, 


Clinging to many a worshipped shrine; 


Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weepjCl) 


Fierce, fitful radiance wildly shed 


And Afric's burning winds afai 


O'er spear and sword with carnage red, 


Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war. 


Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying, 


Where shall his race of victory close"? 


And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 


When shall the ravaged earth repose? 


Weep, Italy ! alas ! that e'er 


But hark ! what wildly mingling cries 


Should tears alone thy wrongs declare! 


From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise? 


The time hath been when thy distress 


Why swells dread Alaric's name on air'^ 


Had roused up empires for redress ! 


A sterner conqueror hath been there I 


.Now, her long race of glory run. 


A conqueror — yet his paths are peace, 


Without a combat Rome is won. 


He comes to bring the world's release; 


And from her plundered temples forth 


He of the sword that knows no sheath, 


Rush the fierce children of the north, 


Th' avenger, the deliverer — Death! 


To share beneath more genial skies 


Is then that daring spirit fled? 


Each joy their own rude clime denies. 


Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? 


Ye who on bright Campania's shore 


Tamed are the warriors pride and strength. 


Bade your fair villas rise of yore. 


And he and earth are calm at length. 


With all their graceful colonnades, 


The land where heaven unclouded shines, 


And crystal baths and myrtle shades, 


Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; 


Along the blue Hesperian deep. 


The land by conquest made his own, 


Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep; 


Can yield him now — a grave alone. 


Beneath your olive and your vine 


But his — her lord from Alp to sea — 


Far other inmates now recUne, 


No common sepulchre shall be ! 


And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed 


Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye 


With rich Ubations duly shed,(3) 


Its buried wealth may ne'er descry! 


O'er guests, unlike your vanished friends, 


Where mortal foot may never tread 


Its bowery canopy extends : 


Above a victor-monarch's bed. 


For them the southern heaven is glowing, 


Let not his royal dust be hid 


The bright Falernian nectar flowing ; 


'Neath star-aspiring pyramid ; 


For them the marble halls unfold. 


Nor bid the gathered mound arise. 


Where nobler beings dwelt of old. 


To bear his memory to the skies. 


Whose children for barbarian lords 


Years roll away — oblivion claims 


Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords. 


Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 


Or wreaths of PsBstan roses twine, 


And hands profane disturb the clay 


To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 


That once was fired with glory's ray ! 


Vet though luxurious they repose 


And Avarice, from their secret gloom, 


Beneath Corinthian porticoes. 


Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 


While round them into being start 


But thou, leader of the free! 


The n^.arvels of triumphant art: 


That genera doom awaits not theei 

- 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



139 



Tliou, whore no step may e'er intrude, 
Sliult rest in regal solitude, 
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, 
The Avvakener's final trumpet sound. 
Turn ye the waters from their course, 
Bid Nature yield to human force, 
A-ud hollow in the torrent's bed, 
A chamber for the mighty dead. 
Tlie work is done — the captive's hand 
Hath well obeyed his loptl's command. 
Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the past, 
The wealth of many a stately dome. 
The gold and gems of plundered Rome : 
And when the midnight stars are beaming. 
And ocean-waves in stillness gleaming. 
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear 
The Chastener of the Nations there; 
To rest at length from victory's toil. 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil ! 

Then the freed current's rushing wave 
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; 
Then streams the martyred captives' blood 
To crimson that sepulchral flood, 
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath past on since then — and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept; 
Temples of gods, and domes of kings. 
Are mouldering with forgotten things ; 
Yet shall not ages e'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest; 
Still rolls, like them, th' unfailing river. 
The guardians of his dust for ever. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 137, col. 2. 
Spared not the li^'ing for the dead. 
After the taking of Athens by Sylla, " though 
such numbers were put to the sword, there were 
as many who laid violent hand upon themselves in 
grief for their sinking country. What reduced the 
best men among them to this despair of finding 
any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the 
well-known cruelty of Sylla ; yet partly by the in- 
tercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles 
who threw themselves at his feet, partly by the 
entreaties of the senators who attended him in that 
expedition, and being himself satiated with blood 
besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his 
hand, and in comiilimcnt to the ancient Athenians, 
he said, ' he forgave the many for the sake of the 
few, the living/or the dead." — Plutarch. 

Note 2, page 138, col. 1. 
Tliat fearful sound, ai midnight deep. 
"At the hour of midniijht, the Salarian gate was 



silently opened, and the inhabitants were awaken- 
ed by the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet. 
Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the 
foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had 
subdued and civilized so considerable a portion of 
mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of 
the tribes of Germany and Scythia." — Decline and 
Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 311. 

Note 3, page 138, col. 1. 

With ricli libations duly shed. 
The plane-tree was much cultivated among tne 
Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade; 
and they used to nourish it with wine instead of 
water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that 
" this tree loved that liquor as well as those who 
used to drink under its shade."- &e the notes to 
Melmoth's Pliny. 

Note 4, page 138, col. 2. 
Soon shall the isle of Ceres weep. 
Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured 
and peculiar dominion of Ceres. 



THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



" This governor, who had braved death when 
it was at a distance, and protested that the sun 
should never see him survive Carthage, this fierce 
Asdrubal, was so mean-spirited, as to come alone, 
and privately throw himself at the conqueror's feet. 
The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, 
granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. 
The Carthaginians in the citadel no .sooner under- 
stood tha-t their com.mander had abandoned thu 
place, than they threw open the gates, and put the 
proconsul in possession of B3'rsa. The Romans 
had now no enemy to contend with but the nine 
hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, 
retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a 
second citadel within the first: there the proconsul 
attacked them ; and these unhappy wretches, find- 
ing there was no way to escape, set fire to the tem- 
ple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one 
part to another, till they got to the roof of the 
building: there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her 
best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a 
day of triumph ; and after having uttered the most 
bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she 
saw standing below with Emilianus, — ' Base cow 
ard!' said she, ' the mean things thou hast done to 
save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shaH die 
this instant, at least in thy twocliildren.' Having 
tlius spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabVd them 
l>oth, and while they were yet strugglir." fnr lifn 



140 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped 
down after them into the flames." — Ancient Uni- 
versal History. , 



The sun sets brightly — but a ruddier glow 
O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw ; 
Her walla have sunk, and pyramids of fire 
In lurid splendor from her domes aspire; 
Swayed by the wind, they wave — while glares the 

sky 
As when the desert's red Simoom is nigh: 
The sculptured altar, and the pillared hall. 
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; 
Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams, 
Rock, wave, and isle are crimsoned by its beams; 
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, 
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes ; 
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, 
Swell from the victor's tents with ivy crowned.* 
But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest height 
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 
All I'egal in magnificent attire, 
And sternly beauteous in terrific irel 
She might be deemed a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power; 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendancy. 
The flames are gathering round — intensely bright, 
Full on her features glares their meteor-light, 
But a wild courage sits triumphant there, 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair ; 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate. 
Mightier than death, untameable by fate. 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound, 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; 
Flushed is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien, 
She seems th' avenging goddess of the scene. 

Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry 
Cling round her, shrinking as the flame draws 

nigh. 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast 1 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, 
And passion awfully vindictive, reign 1 

Fixed is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands, 
Ignobly safe, amidst the conquering bands ; 
On him, who left her to that burning tomb, 
Alone to share hei children's martyrdom; 
Who when .us country perished, fled the strife, 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
" Live, traitor, live!" she cries, " since dear to thee. 
E'en in thy fetters can existence be ! 
Scorned and dishonored hvc! — with blasted name, 
The Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. 
O Slave in spirit! bitter bo thy chain 
VVith tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! 

' It Tas a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with 



Still may the manes of thy children rise 

To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes; 

Still may their voices on the haunted air 

In fearful whispers tell thee to despair. 

Till vain remorse thy withered heart consume, 

Scourged by relentless .shadows of the tomb ! 

E'en now my sons shall die — and thou, their sirsi, 

In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 

Think'st thou I love them notl — 'Twas thine ti 

'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. 
Behold their fate ! — the arms that can not save 
Have been tlieir cradle, and shall be their grave.'' 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, 
Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood 

streams ; 
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast 
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; 
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, 
Then deep 'midst rolling flames is lost to mortal 
eye. 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 



From Maccabees, book 2, chapter iii. 21. " Then 
it would have pitied a man to see the falling down 
of the multitude of all sorts, and the fear of the 
high priest, being in such an agony. — 22. They 
then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the 
things committed of trust safe and sure, for those 
that had committed them. — 23. Nevertheless 
Heliodorus executed that which was decreed. — 
24. Now as he was there present himself with hia 
guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and 
the Prince of all Power, caused a great apparition, 
so that all that presumed to come in with him 
were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, 
and were sore afraid. — 25. For there appeared 
unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, 
and adorned with a very fair covering, and he ran 
fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore- 
feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse 
had complete harness of gold. — 26. Moreover, two 
other young men appeared before him, notable in 
strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in appa- 
rel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged 
him continually, and gave him many sore stripes. 
— 27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, 
and was compassed with great darkness ; but they 
that were with him took him up and put hiiii 
into a litter. — 28. Thus him that lately came with 
great train, and with all his guard into the said 
treasury, they carried out, being unable to help 
himself with his weapons, and manifestly they 
acknowledged the power of God. — 29. For he by 
the hand of God was cast down, and lay speech- 
less, without all hope of life." 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Ml 



A sonND of wo in Salem! — mournful cries 

Rose f -om her dwellings — youtiil'ul cheeks were 
pale, 

Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, 
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail; 

Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer, 

And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 

Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 
The regal splendour of their fair array. 

With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride. 
And thronged the streets in hurrying, wild dis- 
may; 

While knelt thy priests before his awful shrine, 

Who made, of old, renown and empire thine. 

But on the spoiler moves — the temple's gate. 
The briglit, the beautiful, his guards unfold, 

And all the scene reveals its solemn state. 

Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold ; 

And man, with e^-e unhallowed, views th' abode, 

The severed spot, the dwelling-place of God. 

Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore 
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 

Veiled in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest 1 

Thou! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne. 

And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 

Angel of God ! that through th' Assyrian host. 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour. 

To tame the proud, to hush th' invader's boast, 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, 

Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene. 

And death alone revealed where thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not wake. O Chastener! in thy might. 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, 

Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah's light 
Hath streamed the house of holiness to filll 

Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain, 

Eternal one ! Deliverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plunderer, undismayed. 
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore 

Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, 
The orphan's portion, and the widow's store; 

What recks his heart though age unsuccoureddie. 

And want consume the cheek of infancy 1 

Away, intruders! — hark! a mighty sound ! 

Behold a Durst of light! — away, away! 
A fearful glory fills the temple round. 

A vision bright in terrible array ! 
And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame, 
His path a whirlwind, and his breath a flame ! 

His neck is clothed with thunder* — and his mane 
Seems waving fire — the kindling of his eye 



Is a meteor — ardent with disdain 

His glance — his gesture, fierce in majesty ! 
Instinct with light he seems, and formed to bi'ar 
Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold, 

Throned on that burning charger? — briorht his 
form. 
Yet in its briglitness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm! 
Lightning is on his helmet's crest — and fear 
Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. 

And by his side two radiant warriors stand 

All armed, and kingly in commanding grace 

Oh! more than kingly, godlike ! — sternly grand 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to immortals given, 

Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart — each knee is bower^ 
In trembling awe— but, as to fields of fight, 

Th' unearthly war-steed, rushing through th» 
crowd. 
Bursts on their leader in terrific might- 

And the stern angels of that dread abode 

Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

Darkness— thick darkness ! — low on earth he lies, 
Rash Heliodorus — motionless and pale — 

Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded ej'es 
Mists, as of death, wispend their shadowy veil- 

And thus th' oppressor, by his fear-struck train, 

Is borne from that inviolable fane. 

The light returns — the warriors of the sky 

Have passed, with all their dreadful pomp, away • 

Then wakes the rimbrel, swells the song on hio-h 
Triumphant, as in Judah's elder day; 

Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill ! 

Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 



• " HasC Ihou given the horse stren;lh 1 llast thou clothed 
i\a neck willi thundc.t V'—Job, xxxix. 19. 



FROM SISMONDl's " REPUBLiaOES ITALIENNES." 

" En meme temps que les Gcnois poursuivoicnt 
avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, i!s ctoient dc- 
chires euxmcmes par une discorde civile. Les 
consuls de I'annee 11G9, pour etablir la y.vax dans 
leur patrie, au milieu dcs factions sourdes a lour 
voix et plus puissantcs qu' cux, furent oblige-^ 
d'ourdir en quelquc sorte une conspiration. I la 
commenccrent par s'assuror secretement iks d\^ 
positions pacifiques de plusieurs dcs cilovciis, (jui 
cependant ctoient cntraines dans les emeutes jwr 
leur parcntc avec les chefs do faction ; puis se coii- 
certant avec le venerable vieillard, Hugdc;-, leur 
larchev6que, ils fircnt, long-temps aiout It lever ih' 



142 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



t^oleil, appiler au son des cloches les citoyens au 
jjarlement; ils se flattoient que la surprise et 
I'alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu 
de Fohscurite de la nuit, rendroit I'assemblee et 
plus complete et plus docile. Les citoyens, en 
accourant au poTlement general, virent, au milieu 
de la place publique, le vieil archeveque, entoure 
de son clerge en habit de ceremonies, et portant 
des torches allumees, tandis que les reliques de 
Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, etoi- 
ent exposees devant lui, et que les cito3'ens les 
plus respectables portoient a leurs mains des croix 
suppliantes. Des que i'assemblee fut formee, le 
vieillard se-Ieva, et de sa voix cassee il conjura les 
chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom 
du salut de leurs ames, au nom de leur patrie et de 
la liberie, dont leurs discordes entraineroient la 
ruine, de jurer sur I'evangile I'oubli de leurs que- 
relles, et la paix a venir. 

" Les herauts, des qu'il eut fini de parler, s'avan- 
cferent aussitot vers Roland Avogado, le chef de 
I'une des factions, qui etoit present a I'assemblee, 
et, secondes paries acclamations detout le peuple, 
et par les prieres de ses parens eux-memes, ils !e 
sommerent de se conformer au voeu des consuls et 
de la nation. 

"Roland, a leur approche, dechira scs habits, 
et, s'asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, il 
appela a haute voix les morts qu'il avoit jure de 
venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardon- 
ner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit 
le determiner e s'avancer, les consuls eux-memes, 
I'archevcque et le clerge s'approcherent de lui, et, 
renouvelant leurs prieres, ils I'entrainerent enfin, 
et lui firent jurer sur I'evangile I'oubH de ses ini- 
mities passees. 

" Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Cas- 
tro, et Ingo de Volta, n'otoient pas prcsens a I'as- 
semblee, mais le peuple et le clerge se porterent en 
foule a leurs maisons; ils les trouverent deja 
ebranles par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, et, 
profitant de leur emotion, ils leur firent jurer une 
reconciUation sincere, et donner le baiser de paix 
aux chefs de la faction oppesee. Alors les cloches 
de la ville sonnerent en temoignage d'aljegresse, 
et I'archevcque de retour sur la place publique 
entonna un Te Deum avec toute le peuple, en 
honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauve leur 
patrie." — Histoire des RSpubliques ItalienneSj vol. 
•i. p. 149—150. 



I Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Us last warm purple to the wave, 
No sound of war, no voice of fear, 
Was heard, announcing danger near: 
Thougn deadliest foes were there, whose hate 
But slumbered till its hour of fate, 
\'ct calmly, at the twilight's close, 
Sunk 'he wide city to repose. 



But when deep midnight reigned around, 
All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound, 
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 
Bore its dread summons o'er the seas. 
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; 
Then mingled with tli' awakening peal 
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 
" Arm, warriors, arm ! for danger calls. 
Arise to guard your native walls!'' 
With breathless haste the gathering throng 
Hurry the echoing streets along ; 
Through darkness rushing to the scene 
Where their bold councils still convene. 
— But there a blaze of torches bright 
Pours its red radiance on the niglit, 
O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, 
With every fitful night-wind swaying, 
Now floating o'er each tall arcade, 
Around the pillared scene displayed, 
In light relieved by depth of shade; 
And now, with ruddy meteor-glare. 
Full streaming on the silvery hair 
And the bright cross of him who stands, 
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, 
Girt with his consecrated train. 
The hallovved servants of the fane. 
Of life's past woes the fading trace 
Hath given that aged patriarch's face 
Expression holy, deep, resigned, 
The calm sublimity of mind. 
Years o'er his snowy head had passed, 
And left him of his race the last ; 
Alone on earth — yet still his mien 
Is bright with majesty serene ; 
And those high hopes, whose guiding-stai 
Shines from th' eternal worlds afar. 
Have with that light illumed his eye, 
Whose fount is immortality, 
And o'er his features poured a ray 
Of glory, not to pass away. 
He seems a being who hath known 
Communion with his God alone. 
On earth by nought but pity's tie 
Detained a moment from on high ! 
One to sublimer worlds allied, 
One, from all passion purified. 
E'en now half mingled with the sky, 
And all prepared — oh ! not to die- 
But like the prophet, to aspire, 
In heaven's triumphal car of fire. 
He speaks — and from the throngs around 
Is heard not e'en a whispered sound ; 
Awe-struck each heart, and fixed each glance, 
They stand as in a spell bound-trance: 
He speaks — oh ! who can hear nor own 
The might of each prevailing tone 1 

" Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long 
Aroused to strife by mutual wron(», 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 143 


Whoso fierce and far-transmitted hate 


And say'st thou, mortal! blood alone 


Hath made your country desolate; 


For deeds of slaughter may atone? 


Now by the love ye bear her name, 


There hath been blood — by HIM 'twas shed 


By that pure spark of holy flame 


To expiate every crime who bled ; 


On freedom's altar brightly burning, 


Th' absolving God who died to save. 


But, once extinguished — ne'er returning; 


And rose in victory from the grave ! 


By all your hopes of bliss to come 


And by that stainless offering given 


When burst the bondage of the tomb ; 


Alike on all on earth to heaven; 


By him, the God who bade us live 


By that inevitable hour 


To aid each other and forgive ; 


When death shall vanquish pride and power, 


I call upon ye to resign 


And each departing passion's force 


Your discords at your country's shrine, 


Concentrate all in late remorse ; 


Each ancient feud in peace atone. 


And by the day when doom shall be 


Wield your keen swords for her alone. 


Passed on earth's millions, and on thee, 


And swear upon the cross to cast, 


The doom that shall not be repealed, 


Oblivion's mantle o'er the past." 


Once uttered, and for ever sealed; 


No voice replies — the holy bands 


I summon thee, child of clay ! 


Advance to where yon chieftain stands. 


To cast thy darker thoughts away 


With folded arms and brow of gloom 


And meet thy foes in peace and love. 


O'ershadowed by his floating plume 


As thou wouldst join the blest above." 


To him they lift the cross — in vain 


Still as he speaks unwonted feeling 


He turns — oh ! say not with disdain, 


Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing; 


But with a mien of haughty grief. 


Oh ! not in vain the jjleading cries 


That seeks not e'en from heaven relief: 


Of anxious thousands round him rise, 


He rends his robes — he sternly speaks — 


He yields — devotion's mingled sense 


Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks. 


Of faith, and fear, and penitence. 


" Father! not thus the wounds may close 


Pervading all his soul, he bows 


Inflicted by cternar foes. 


To offer on the cross his vows, \ 


Deem'st thou thy mandate can efTace 


And that best incense to the skies. 


The dread volcana's burning trace? 


Each evil passion's sacrifice. 


Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 


Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing, 


Be, smiling, as it once hath been "? 


High hearts witli soft emotions glowing. 


No ! — for the deeds the sword hath done 


Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, i 


Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 


And ardent throngs in transport meeting. 


The words, by hatred spoke, may not 


And eager footsteps forward pressing 


Be, as a summer breeze, forgot! 


And accents loud in joyous blessing; 


'Tis vain — we deem the war-feud's rage 


And when their first wild tumults cease, 


A portion of our heritage. 


A thousand voices echo " Peace!" 


Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, 


Twilight's dim mist hath rolled away 


Bequeathed us that undying flame; 


And the rich Orient burns with day; 


Hearts that have long been still and cold 


Then, as to greet the sunbeam's birth, 


Yet rule us from their .silent mould, 


Rises the choral hymn of earth; 


And voices, heard on earth no more, 


Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling, 


Speak to our spirits as of yore. 


Of peace and holy rapture telling. 


Talk not of mercy — blood alone 


Far float the sounds o'er vale and steep. 


The stain of bloodshed may atone ; 


The seaman hears them on the deep. 


Nought else can pay that mighty debt, 


So mellowed by the gale, they seem 


The dead forbid us to forget.'' 


As the wild music of a dream; 


He pauses — from the patriarch's brow 


But not on mortal ear alone 


There beams more lofty grandeur now; 


Peals the triumi)hant anthem's tone. 


His reverend form, his aged hand, 


For beings of a purer sphere 


Assume a gesture of command, 


Bend with celestial joy, to hear 


His voice is awful, and his eye 






Filled with proiihetic majesty. 


TPIE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARlJ 


'• The dead ! — and deem'st thou they retain 


CCEUR DE LION. 


Aught of terrestrial passion's stain? 






Of guilt incurred in days gone by, 


"Not only the place of Richard's confinement 


Aught of the fearful penalty ? 


(when thrown into p-vson by the Duke of Austria,; 



144 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" if we believe the literary history of the times, but 
even the circumstance of his captivity, was care- 
fully concealed by his vindictive enemies : and both 
might have remained unknown but for the grate- 
ful attachment of a Provenfal bard, or minstrel, 
named Blondel, who had shared that prince's 
friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travel- 
led over all the European continent to learn the 
destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally 
got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, 
where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and 
guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a se- 
cret impulse that this prisoner was the King of 
England, the minstrel repaired to the place ; but 
the gates of the castle were shut against him, and 
he could obtain no information relative tp the name 
or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In 
this extremity, he bethought himself of an expe- 
dient for making the desired discovery. He chant- 
ed, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which 
had been composed partly by himself, partly by 
Richard: and, to his unspeakable joy, on making 
a pause, he heard it re-echoed, and continued by 
the royal captive." — {Hist. Troubadours.') To 
this discovery the English monarch is said to have 
eventually owed his release." — See Russell's Mo- 
dern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. 



The Troubadour o'er many a plain 
HaUi roamed unwearied, but in vain. 
O'er many a rugged mountain-scene, 
And forest-wild, his track hath been ; 
Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 
He hath sung the songs of chivalry, 
His voice hath swelled on the Alpine breeze, 
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 
From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave, 
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave, 
And yet, if still on earth thou art, 
O monarch of the lion-heart 1 
The faithful spirit, which distress 
But heightens to devotedness, 
By toil and trial vanquished not. 
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 

He hath reached a mountain hung with vine, 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine; 
The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown in unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullen state, 
No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate(l) 
To bid ihe wearied pilgrim I'est, 
At ihe chieftain's board a welcome guest ; 
Vainiv rich evening's parting smile 
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, 
That 'midst bright sunshine lowers on high. 
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer-sky. 

Not these the halls where a child of song 
A.while may sneed the hours along : 



Their echoes should repeat alone 

The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan. 

Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast. 

When his phantom-train are hurrying past, ) 

The weary minstrel paused — his eye 

Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 

Within the lengthening shadow, cast 

By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, 

Lingering he gazed — the rocks around 

Sublime in savage grandeur frowned ; 

Proud guardians of the regal flood. 

In giant strength the mountains stood ; 

By torrents cleft, by tempests riven. 

Yet mingling with the calm blue heaven. 

Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, 

But the Rhine all shadowy rolled below ; 

In purple tints the vineyards smiled. 

But the woods beyond waved dark and wild; 

Nor pastoral pipe, nor convent's bell. 

Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell, 

But all was lonely, silent, rude 

A stern, yet glorious solitude. 

But hark ! that solemn stillness breaking, 
The Troubadour's wild song is waking. 
Full oft that song, in days gone by, 
Hath cheered the sons of chivalry ; 
It hath swelled o'er Judah's mountains lone, 
Hermon ! thy echoes have learned its tone ; 
On the Great Plain(,3) its notes have rung. 
The leagued Crusader's tents among ; 
'T was loved by the Lion-heart, who won 
The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 

THE troubadour's SONG. 

" Thine hour is come, and the stake is set," 
The soldan cried to the captive knight, 

" And the sons of the Prophet in throngs ate i it 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

" But be our faith by thy lips professed, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine, 
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy ves*, 

And life shall yet be thine." 

" I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood, 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood. 

And thinkest thou I fear to die 1 

" I have stood where thousands by Salem's towers, 

Have fallen for the name divine ; 
And the faith that cheered their closing hours 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health. 
And the glow of youth's fresh bloom 1 

Thou art oflered life-, and pomp, and wealth, 
Or torture and the tomb." 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



115 



" 1 ha ve been where tlie crown of thorns was twined 

For a dying Saviour's brow ; 
He spurned the treasures that lure mankind, 

And I reject them now!" 

" Art tliou the son of a noble line 

In a land that is fair and blest % 
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! pine, 

Again on its shores to rest 1 

" Thine own is the choice to hail once more 

The soil of tliy fathers' birth, 
Or to sleep when thy lingering pangs are o'er, 

Forgotten in foreign earth." 

" Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise 

In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native skies, 

There's a brighter clime above !" 

The bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope again, 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain, 

" Are there none within thy father's hall. 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Young Christian ! left to deplore thy fall, 

With sorrow deep arid vainl" 

" There are hearts that still, through all the past, 

Unchanging have loved me well ; 
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast 

When I bade my home farewell. 

" Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier, 

Than th' apostate's living stain ; 
There's a land where those who loved, when here. 

Shall meet to love again." 

'T is he ! thy prince — long sought, long lost, 
The leader of the red-cross host! 
'T is he ! — to none thy joy betray, 
Young Troubadour ! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave, 
The gem on the bosom of the wave,(4) 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil. 
To win their lion from the toil ; 
And free the wassail-cup shall flow, 
Briglit in each hall the hearth shall glow; 
The festal board shall be richly crowned. 
While knights and chieftains revel round. 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, 
When merry England hails her king. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 144, col. 1. 



No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate. 
It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a 



invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in 
the romance of ' Perceforest,' " lis fiisoinct nicttra 
au plus hault de leur hostel un hcaulme, en si^ne 
que tons les gentils hommes et gcntilles femmeB 
entrassent hardiment en leur hostel comme en leur 
propre." 

Note 2, page 144, col. 2. 

Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, 
When his phantom-train are hurrying past, 

Popular tradition has made several mountains in 
Germany the haunt of the wild Jdger, or super- 
natural huntsman — the superstitious talcs relating 
to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustaces Clas- 
sical Tour ; and it is still believed in the romantic 
district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Pvoden- 
stein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces 
the approach of war by traversing the air with a 
noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnel- 
lerts. — See the Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le 
Rhin, and Autumn on the Rhine. 

Note 3, page 144, col. 2. 
On the Great Plain its notes have rung. 

The plain of Esdraelon, called by way of emi- 
nence the " Great Plain ;" in Scripture, and else- 
where, the "field of Megiddo," the " Galilajn 
Plain." This plain, the most fertile of all the land 
of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memor- 
able contest in the first ages of Jewish history, a3 
well as during the Roman empire, the Crusades, 
and even in later times. It has been a chosen 
place for encampment in every contest carried on 
in this country, from the days of Nabuchodonosor, 
king of the Assyrians, until the diastrous march 
of Bonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors 
out of " every nation which is under heaven " have 
pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdraeion, 
and have beheld the various banners of their na- 
tions wet with the dews of Herraon and Thabor, 

■Dr. Clarke's Travels. 

Note 4, page 145, col. 1. 

The gem on tlie bosom of the wave. 

" This precious stone set in the silver sea." 

Shakspeare's Richard IlL 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 



FROM SISMONDl'S "rEPUBLIQDES ITALIENNES." 

" La defaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre unf 
terme ni a ses malhcurs, ni aux venge inces du roi 
(Charles d'Anjou). L'amour du pe'^ Je pour I'he- 
ritii'r legitime du trone, avoit eclatf J'une tnaniere 
efirnyantc ; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles rovolu- 



Iieliiict on a castle, as a token that strangers were itions, si Conradin demeuroit ec vie; et Oharle* 



15 



146 



MRS. HEM AN S' WORKS. 



revetant sa defiance et sa cruaute des formes de la 
justice, resolut de faire perir sur Techafaud le der- 
nier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, I'unique es- 
perance de son parti. Un seul juge Provenfal et 
feujet de Charles, dont les historiens n'ont pas voulu 
conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d'autres 
Be renfermerent dans un tiraide et coupable silence; 
et Charles, sur I'autorite de ce seul juge, fit pro- 
nouncer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du roy- 
aume, la sentence de mort centre Conradin et tons 
ses campagnons. Cette sentence fut communi- 
quee a Conradin, comme il jouoit aux echecs; on 
.'ui laissa peu de temps pour se preparer a son exe- 
cution, et le 26 d'Octobre, il fut conduit, avec tous 
ses amis, sur la Place du Marche de Naples, le 
long du rivage de la mer. Charles etoit present, 
avec tout^ sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit 
le roi vainqueur et le roi condamnc. Conradin 
etoit entre les mains des bourreaux ; ildetacha lui- 
rneme son manteau, et s'etant mis a genoux pour 
prier, il se releva en s'ecriant: 'Oh, ma mere, 
quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on 
va te porter de moi ! ' Puis il tourna les yeux sur 
la foule qui I'entouroit ; il vit les larmes, il enten- 
dit les sanglots de son peuple ; alors, dctachant son 
gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d'un 
combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tete au bourreau. 
Apres lui, sur le meme cchafaud, Charles fit 
trancher le tete au Due d'Autriche, aux Comtcs 
Gualferanoet Bartolommeo Lancia, etaux Comtes 
Gerard de Galvano Donoratico de Pise. Par une 
rafinement de cruaule, Charles voulut que le pre- 
mier, fils du second, precedat son pere, et mourut 
entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apres ses ordres, 
furent exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes sans 
pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. cepen- 
dant fit dans la suite batir, sur le meme lieu, une 
eglise de Carmelites, comme pour appaiser ces om- 
ores irritees."' 



No cloud to dim the splendour of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charmed the great of yore; 
Th' imperial ones of earth — who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en ocean's realm invade. 

That race is gone — but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Briglit hues, surviving empires past away. 

The beam of heaven expands — its kindling smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle. 
Whose image floats in softer colouring drest, 
With all il- rocks and vines on ocean's breast, 
Misenum'st \\)e hath caught the vivid ray. 
Or Roman si eamers there no more to play; 
&till as of old, unalterably bright, 
Lovily il, sleeps on Posilippo's height, 



With all Italia's sunshine to illame 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies^ 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While, far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Furrowed and dark with many a lava streak. 

O ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! 
Rich with all nature's and all fiction's hues ; 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet erred to paint Elysium there 7 
Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide 
Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas beside, 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells more potsnt shall pervade the air. 
What tliough his dust be scattered, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn, (1) 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around, 
Hovering in beauty o'er the enchanted ground ; 
His lays are murmured in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves. 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope; 
Shedding o'er myrtle-shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witnessed many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. (2) 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral wail. 
Mourning for Ouried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. (3) 
And there of old, the dread, mysterious moan 
Swelled from strange voices of no mortal tone; 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly nole 
Was heard at midnight o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died, 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide, (4) 

Past are those ages — yet another crime. 
Another wo must stain th' Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore- 
It must be crimsoned e'er tlie day is o'er! 
There is a throne in regal pomp arrayed, — 
A scene of death from thence must bo surveyed. 
Marked ye the rushing throngs? — each mien ie 

pale. 

Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale; 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast. 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppressed : 
The burning tear av\'hile must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force. 
For tyranny is near and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provenfals, and w'.^n mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, (^5) 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



ir 



Bobokl the conqiierorl -vain'yin his face, 
Of gentler feeling hoiie wou ^iek a trace; 
Cold, proud, severe, the spiricwmch hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament; 
And pleading mercy, in tlie sternness there. 
May read at once her sentence — to despair! 

But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave, 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou, on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye. 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath grown too full for utterance — can it be 1 
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee ? 
Young, royal Conradin ! who should'st have known 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, arrayed thus richly for the tomb. 
Nor feel, deep-swelling in his inmost soul. 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er controll 
Bright victim! to ambition's altar led, 
Crowned with all flowers that heaven and earth 

can shed. 
Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy — if to thee denied 1 
There is dead silence in the breathless throng. — 
Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 
As on the captive moves — the only sound. 
To break that calm so fearfully profound, 
The low sweet murmur of the rippling wave. 
Soft as it glides the smiling shore to lave ; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage. 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
Is passing to his fate — the eyes are dim 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on 

him: 
rle mounts he scaffold — doth his footstep fail? 
Doth his lip quiverl doth his cheek turn pale*^ 
Oh! it may be forgiven him, if a thought 
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught. 
To all the hopes that promised Glory's meed, 
A nd all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! 
If in his life's young day-spring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, 
One human fear convulse his parting breath. 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death! 

But no ! — the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow — that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty — and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — but not to man — his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour? 
How the still voice, which answers every moan, 
May speak of hope, — when hope on earth is gone! 

That solemn pause is o'er —the youth hath given 
One glance cf parting love to earth and heaven; 



The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky, 

Life all around him glows — and he must die! 

Yet 'midst his people, undismayed, he throws 

The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes; 

Vengeance, that like tlicir own volcano's fire, 

May sleep suppressed awhile — but not expire. 

One softer image rises o'er his breast. 

One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 

" Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear 

To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, 

When thy lost child is gone 1" — that thought cxn 

thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — • 
It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet from the blood which flows that shore to stain, 
A voice shall cry to heaven — and not in vain ! 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou! — but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed — the throngs depart, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies. 
O vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean's wave, 
Marked by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonoured, unadorned— but unforgot: 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, 
Now mutely suffering — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away, — 
A bark hath anchored in th' unruffled bay; 
Thence on the beach descend.s a female form, (6) 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm; 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, 
And her soft eyes a chastened heart bespeak. 
Inured to woes — yet what were all the past ! 
She sunk not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 
While one bright hope remained — who now shall 

tell 
Th' uncrowned, the widowed, how her loved one 

fein 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save. 
The mother came — and she hath found his grave! 
And by that grave, transfixed in speechless grief, 
Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief, 
Awhile she kneels — till roused at length to know, 
To fell the might, the fulness of her wo, 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry, is heard — "My Conradin! mv 
child !" 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 146, col. 2. 
Long from its sanctuary of .slumber toni. 
The urn, supposed to contain the ashes o' Vi** 
gil, has long since been lost, 



148 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Note 2, page 146, col. 2. 
The sighs of exiles never to return. 
Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly 
banished to some of the small islands in the Medi- 
terranean, on the coast of Italy. Julia, the daugh- 
ter of Augustus, was confined many years in the 
isle of Pandataria, and her daughter, Agrippina, 
the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile 
on the same desolate spot. 

Note 3, page 146, col. 2. 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. 
"Q.uelques souvenirs du coeur, quelques noms 
de femmes, reclament aussi vos pleurs. C'est a 
Misene, dans le lieu meme ou nous sommes, que la 
veuve de Pompee, Cornelie, conserva jusqu'a la 
mort son noble deuil ; Agrippine pleura long-temps 
Germanicus sur ces bords. Un jour, le meme as- 
sassin qui lui ravit son epoux la trouva digne de le 
suivre. L'ile de Nisida fut temoin des adieux de 
Brutus et de Porcie." — Madame de Stael — Co- 



Note 4, page 146, col. 2. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 
The sight of that coast, and those shores where 
the crime had been perpetrated, filled Nero with 
continual horrors ; besides, there were some who 
imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from 
Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful sound of trum- 
pets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, 
therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, with- 
drew to Naples. — See Ancient Universal History. 



Note 5, page 146, col. 2. 

Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene. 

" Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani, "fut sage 
et prudent dans les conseils, preux dans les amies, 
apre et fort redoute de tous les rois du monde, 
magnanime et de hautes pensees qui I'egaloient 
aux plus grandes entreprises; inebranlable dans 
I'adversite, ferme et fidele dans toutes ses promes- 
ses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, ne riant 
"presque jamais, decent comme un religienx, zele 
catholique, apre a rendre justice, feroce dans ses 
regards. Sa taille etoit grande et nerveuse, sa 
couleur olivatre, son nez fort grand. II paroissoit 
plus fait qu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste 
royale. II ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne 
prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux 
gens de cour." — Sismondi. Republiques Italiennes, 
vol. iii. 

Note 6, page 147, col. 2. 

Thence on the beach descends a female form. 

" The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the 
bloody catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin 
and Frederick of Austria, butchered before its door. 
Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearn- 
ed at the idea of their premature fate, and at the 
deep distress of Conradin's mother, who, landing 
on the beach with her son's ransom, found only a 
lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his bar- 
barous conqueror." — Swinburne's Travels in the 
Two Sicilies. 



A POEM. 



"Leur raison, qu'ils prennent pour guide, ne 
presente a leur esprit que des conjectures et des 
embarras ; les absurdites ou ils tombent en niant 
la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les 
verites dont la hauteur les etonne ; et pour ne vou- 
loir pas croire des mysteres incomprehensibles, ils 
Euivent Tune apres I'autre d'incomprehensibles 
erreurs." — Bossuet, Oraisons Funebres. 



When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, 
Has learned to dare the splendour of the sky, 
Anu leave the Alps beneath him in his course, 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source. 
Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, 
Wnich far below, with evanescent fire. 
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire 1 

No ! still through clouds he wins his upward way, 
jft.nd proudly claims nis heritage of day ! 



— And shall the spirit on whose ardent gaze, 
The dayspring from on high hath poiu'ed its blazo, 
Turn from that pure effulgence, to tiiebeam 
Ofearth-born light, that sheds a treaciierous gleam, 
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith. 
To the deep valley of the shades of death 7 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be 

given. 
For the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven 7 
If lost the gem which empires could not buy, 
What yet remains 1 — a dark eternity 1 

Is earth still Eden ! — might a seraph guest, 
Still, 'midst its chosen bowers delighted rest 1 
Is all so cloudless and so calm below. 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show 1 
That the cold Sceptic in his pride elate. 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state, 
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace, 
To rear his dweUing on the quicksand's ba.^ ? 



J] 



THE SCEPTIC. 



irj 



Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng, 
Bask in the sunbeam, Usten to the song, 
Spread the rich board, and lill the wine-cup high, 
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 
'Tis well, thine eye is yet undimined by time, 
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime ; 
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, 
And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice 1 

But life hath sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brief hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; 
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil. 
Are few and distant on the desert soil ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath ofstorms must fan, 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling — Man ! 
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared — 
Pround child of reason ! how art Ihou prepared 7 
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow- 
ed, 
And o'er thy spirit cast thy wintry cloud. 
Will Memory sooth thee on thy bed of pain, 
With the bright images of pleasure's train 1 
Yes ! as the sight of some far distant shore, 
Whose well-known "scenes his foot shall tread no 

more. 
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave 
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathomed grave! 
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call. 
She, who like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all 1 
Will she speak comfort? — Thou hast shorn her 

plume, 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb, 
And hushed the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown ! 

For siie was born beyond the stars to soar, 
And kindling at the source of life, adore; 
Thou couldst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth 
Pier eye, whose beam is of celestial birth ; 
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, 
And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee. 

Yet few there are, so lonely, so bereft. 
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left. 
And, haply, one whose strong affection's power 
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's 

hour. 
Still with fond care supports thy languid head, 
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. 

But thou ! whose thoughts have no blest home 
above, 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love ? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest, 
Within that hallowed shrine — a parent's breast, 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie. 
On one frail idol, — destined but to die. 
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, 
Where severed souls, made perfect, re-unite 1 
Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, 
Twined with the life a moment may destroy ! 
If there be sorrow in a parting tear. 
Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear ! 
15* 



If some bright hour on rapture's wmg hatli fl.>wii. 
Find more than anguish in the thought — 't is gone 
Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, 
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live ; 
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, 
And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; 
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust ! 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care. 
Think on that dread "for ever''' — and despair 1 

And oh ! no strange, unwonted storm there needs, 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course — explore with anxious eye 
Each little cloud that floats along the sky — 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there. 
And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine sleep 
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep ! 
Yes ! ere a sound, a sign announce thy fate. 
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! 
Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds 
His awful form in tempests and in clouds ; 
He fills the summer-air with latent power. 
He hides his venom in the scented flower, 
He steals upon thee, in the Zephyr's breath. 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death 7 

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast 
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, 
And vainly hope the tree of life to find 
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind ? 
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well. 
It wished not in a brighter sphere to dwell, 
Become a desert now, a vale of gloom, 
O'ershadowed with the midnight of the tomb 1 
Where shalt thou turn ? — it is not thine to raise; 
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze, 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast. 
Not for thine eye shall faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead ; 
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is prest, 
The form departed be thy spirit's guest. 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this; 
The future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 

But who shall dare the Gate of Life to close, 
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows'? 
That fount unsealed, whose boundless waves em- 
brace 
Each distant isle and visit every race. 
Pours from the Throne of God its current free, 
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee. 
Oh ! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, 
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead. 
While still, suspended by a single hair, 
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the an, 
Bow down thy heart to Him, who will not break 
The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, aw£ ke ! 



Patient, because Eternal,(l) He may hear 
Tliy prayer of agony with pitying ear, 
And send his chastening spirit from above, 
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. 

But seek thou mercy through His name alone, 
To whose unequalled sorrows none was shown. 
Through Him, who here iri mortal garb abode, 
As man 'to suffer, and to heal as God I 
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless. 
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 

Call thou on Him — for He, in human form, 
Hath walked the waves of Life, and stilled the 

storm. 
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past. 
O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last. 
Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch poured 
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored ; 
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, 
Taught from his Cross the lesson — to forgive! 

Call thou on him — his prayer e'en then arose. 
Breathed in unpitied anguish, for his foes. 
And haste ! — ere bursts the lightning from on high, 
Fly 10 the City of thy Refuge, fly !('2) 
So shall th' Avenger turn his steps away, 
And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey. 

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, 
As the soft Halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued ; 
Ere yet the dove of Heaven descend, to shed 
Inspiring influence o'er thy fallen head. 
—He who hath pined in dungeons, 'midst the 

shade 
Of such deep night as man for man hath made, 
Through lingering years; if called at length to be 
Once mr>re, by nature's boundless charter, free, 
Shrmks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, 
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun! 
Thus, when the captive soul hath long remained 
In its own dread abyss of darkness chained, 
If the Deliverer, in his might, at last, 
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, 
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight, 
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. 
But this will pass away — that spark of nriind, 
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, 
Shall Uve to triump in its brightening ray, 
Born to be fostered with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour, when o'er thee 

passed, 
On wing of flame the purifying blast. 
And sorrow's voice, through paths before untrod, 
Like Sinai's tnmipet. Called thee to thy God ! 

But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride 1 
III thine own strength unaided to defy, 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky 1 
Torn by the vulture, fettered to the rock, 
Still, Demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? 
Alas' the tower that crests the mountain brow 
A thousand years may awe the vale below, 



Yet not the less be shattered on its height. 

By one dread moment of the earthquake's might 

A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, 

In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn. 

Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent 

To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. 

Oh! what is nature's strength 1 the vacant eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply! 
The wild delirious laughter of despair, 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there! 
Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, 
Close not thine ear against their awful tale. 
They tell thee, reason, wandering from the ray 
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way. 
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave. 
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 
Weep not, sad moralist I o'er desert plains. 
Strewed with the wrecks of grandeur — moulder* 

ing fanes, 
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown 
And regal cities, now the serpent's own: 
Earth has more awful ruins— one lost mind, 
Whose star is quenched, hath lessons for mankind, 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome, 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore 
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no morel 
Who pierce the deep, mysterious clouds that roll 
Around the shattered temple of the soul, 
Curtained with midnight 1 — low its columns lie, 
And dark the chambers of its imagery ?(3) 
Sunk are its idols now — and God alone 
May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown! 
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, 
Is heard an oracle that cries — " Beware ! 
Child of the dust! but ransomed of the skies! 
One breath of Heaven — and thus thy glory dies 
Hast, ere the hour of doom, draw nigh to Him 
Who dwells above between the cherubim!" 

Spirit dethroned! and checked in mid career. 
Son of the morning ! exiled from the sphere. 
Tell us thy tale ! — Perchance thy race was run 
With science, in the chariot of the sun; 
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep, 
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, 
And search the laws that Nature's springs con 

trol. 
There tracing all — save Him who guides th« 
whole. 

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast 
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past ; 
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed 
From the far beacon-lights of ages fled, 
The depths of time exploring, to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanished race. 

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre, 
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire. 
Silenced all meaner notes, and swelled on high, 
Full and alone, their mighty harmony, 



THE SCEPTIC. 



151 



While woke each passion from its cell profound, 
And nations started at tli' electric sound 1 

Lord ofth' Ascendant! what avails it now, 
riuHigh bright the laurels waved upon thybrowl 
W hat, though thy name through distant empires 

heard, 
Bad* the heart bound as doth a battle-word'? 
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye 
Kept vigil with the watch-fires of the sky, 
To make the secrets of all ages thine. 
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine 
O'er Time's long shadowy pathway! — hath thy 

mind 
Severed its lone dominions from mankind, 
For this to woo their homage 1 — Thou hast sought 
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught. 
Won every wreatli — but that which will not die, 
Nor aught neglected — save eternity! 

And did all fail thee, in the hour of wrath. 
When burst th' o'erwhelming vials on thy pathl 
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, 
O spirit ! sceptred by the sons of men. 
With an Immortal's courage to sustain 
The transient agonies of earthly paini 

— One, one there was, all-powerful to have 
saved. 
When the loud fury of the billow raved ; 
But Him thou knewest not — and the light he lent 
Flath vanished from its ruined tenement. 
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, 
A thing we shrink from — vainly to forget ; 
Lift the dread veil no further — hide, oh ! hide 
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! 
The dagger grasped in death — the brow, the eye. 
Lifeless, yet stamped with rage and agony; 
The soul's dark traces left in many a line 
Graved on his mien, who died, — " and made no 

sign !" 
Approach not, gaze not — lest thy fevered brain 
Too deep that image of despair retain; 
Angels of slumber! o'er the midnight hour. 
Let not such visions claim unhallowed power. 
Let the mind sink with terror, and above 
See but th' Avenger's arm, forgot th' Atoner's 

love! 
O Thou! th' unseen, th' all-seeing! — Thou 
whose ways 
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze. 
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, 
Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand, 
A nd countless ages, tramiiling into clay 
Larth's empires on tlieir march, are but a day; 
Father of worlds unknown, unnumbered! — Thou, 
With whom all time is one eternal now, 
Who know'st no past, no future — Thou whose 

Drealh 
Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death ! 
liOok on us, guide us! — wanderers of a sea 
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee 1 



A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, 
A star may set — and we are lost in night; 
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, 
A treach'rous song allure us — and we sink! 

Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light, 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And Heaven and Earth disdained not to ally 
By that dread union — Man with Deity; 
Lnmortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere he raised them, vv'ept above the dead ; 
Save, or we perish ! — let thy word control 
The earthquakes of that universe — the soul ; 
Pervade the depths of passion — speak once more 
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, 
" Here shall thy waves be stayed" — in grief, in pain. 
The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain. 
Thou, by whom suns are balanced! — thus secure 
In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust. 
And, by affliction guided to Thy shrine. 
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. 

And oh ! be near, when clothed with conquer- 
ing power. 
The King of Terrors claims his own Iread hour; 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss. 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss. 
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave. 
Must drink the cup of trembling(4) — when we see 
Nought in the universe but death and Thee, 
Forsake us not ; — if still, when life was young. 
Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung. 
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, 
Father, forsake us not! — when tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge. 
When from Thy justice to Thy love we fly, 
On Nature's conflict look with pitying ej^e. 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, 
Come in the still small voice, and whisper — 
peace !(5) 

For oh! 't is awful — He that hath beheld 
The parting spirit, by its fears repelled. 
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain. 
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; 
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 
Dissolve the union formed and closed in wo. 
Well knows, that hour is awful. — In the pride 
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, 
We talk of Death as something, which 't were 

sweet 
In Glory's arms exultingly to meet, 
A closing triumph, a majestic scene, 
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mieu 
As, undismayed amidst the tears of all, 
He folds his mantle, regally to tall! 

Hush, Ibnd enthusiast! — still, obscure, and lono 
Yet not less terrible because unknown. 



52 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Is the last hour of thousands — they retire 
From hfe's thronged path, unnoticed to expire, 
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares, 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! 
Such is man's doom — and, ere an hour be flown, 
— Start not, thou trifler ! — such may be thine own 

But as life's current in its ebb draws near 
Tlie shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, 
A thrilling thought, which, haply mocked before, 
We fain would stifle — but it sleeps no more! 
There are, who fly its murmurs 'midst the throng, 
Tiiat join the masque of revelry and song. 
Yet still Death's image, by its power restored, 
Frowns 'midst the roses of the festal board, 
And, when deep shades o'er earth and ocean 

brood, 
And the heart owns the might of solitude. 
Is its low whisper heard — a note profound. 
But wild and startling as the trumpet-sound, 
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose 
Of some proud city, stormed by midnight foes ! 

Oh ! vainly reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life hath nought to claim such lingering love, 
And ask, if e'er the captive, half unchained, 
Clung to the links which yet his step restrained. 
In vain philosophy, with tranquil pride, 
Woiild mock the feelings she perchance can hide, 
Call up the countless armies of the dead, 
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, 
And say — "What wouldst thoul Shall the fixed 

decree. 
Made for creation, be reversed for thee?''' 
— Poor, feeble aid ! — proud Stoic ! ask not why 
It is enough, that nature shrinks to die ! 
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid, 
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid ! 
— Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce de- 
fined 
And mystic questions of the parting mind, 
Half checked, half uttered — tell her, what shall 

burst 
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first. 
When freed from mortal films'! — what viewless 

world 
Shall first receive her wing but half unfurled '? 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried"? 
Say if at once, her final doom to hear, 
Before her God the trembler must appear, 
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea 
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth 

shall flee 1 
Hast thou no answer 1 — then deride no more 
I'he thoughts that shrink, yet cease not to explore 
Th' unknown, th' unseen, the future — though the 

heart 
As at unearthly sounds, before them start, 



Though the frame shudder, and the spirit sigh, 
They have their source in immortality! 
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's aid 

denies. 
An equal to the mortal conflict rise 7 
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning 

pace. 
Where'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, 
The mighty rider comes — oh ! whence shall aid 
Be drawn, to meet their rushing, undismayed 1 
— Whence, but from thee, Messiah ! — thou hast 

drained 
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remained ; 
To thee the struggle and the pang were known, 
The mystic horror — all became thine own ! 

But did no hand celestial succour bring. 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting"? 
Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour, 
To arm thee with invulnerable power 1 
No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head, 
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, 
From man averted — and thy path on high 
Passed through the strait of fiercest agony; 
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes, 
Received the last, th' almighty sacrifice ! 

But wake ! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb 
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom ! 
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod, 
Break forth in joy, ye ransomed! saith your God ! 
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, 
And hail with harps your bright and morning star 

He rose! the everlasting gates of day 
Received the King of Glory on his way ! 
The hope, the comforter of those who Wept, 
And the first-fruits of them, in Him that slept. 
He rose, he triumphed ! he will yet sustain 
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. 
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame 
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, 
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice 
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, "Rejoice!'' 
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend, 
Where the lone suflerer dies without a friend, 
He, whom the busy world shall miss no more 
That morn one dew-drop from her countless store, 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, 
Called to the hope of glory, shall depart! 

And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft 
Of that high hope, to misery what were left 7 
But for the vision of the days to be, 
But for the Comforter, despised by thee, 
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, 
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke, 
When o'er our heads the desolating blast, 
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath passed, 
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey, 
Hath called our fairest and our best away 1 
Should we not madden, when our eyes behold 
All that we loved in marble stillness cold, 



^ 



THE SCEPTIC. 



1&3 



No more responsive to our smile or sigh, 
Fixed — frozen— silent — all mortality ? 
But for the promise, all shall yet be well. 
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel, 
Beneath such clouds as darkened, when the hand 
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land, 
And thou, just lent thy gladdened isles to bless, 
Then snatched from earth with all thy loveliness, 
With all a nation's blessings on thy liead, 
O England's flower ! wert gathered to the dead ? 
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart, 
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart! 
When fled the hope through all thy pangs which 

smiled, 
When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child. 
Yearned with vain longing — still thy patient eye. 
To its last light, beamed holy constancy ! 
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast. 
Amidst those agonies — thy first and last. 
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes. 
Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose ; 
While bowed thy royal head to Hira, whose power 
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour. 
Who from the brightest vision of a throne, 
Love, glory, empire, claimed thee for his own. 
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, 
As blasted Israel, when her ark was lost ! 

" It is the will of God !" — yet, yet we hear 
The words which closed thy beautiful career, 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, 
But for that thought—" It is the will of God !" 
'Vyiio shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree. 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee ? 
Oh 1 still, though vanishing without a trace, 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race. 
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among. 
Hallowed by freedom, and enshrined in song ! 
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell. 
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, 
E'en as an angel, with presiding care. 
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. 

For lo ! the hour when storm presaging skies 
Call on the watchers of the land to rise. 
To set the sign of fire on every height,(6) 
And o'er the mountains rear, with patriot might, 
Prepared, if summoned, in its cause to die. 
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory! 

By this hath England conquered — field and 
flood 
Have owned her sovereignty — alone she stood, 
When chains o'er all the sceptred earth were 

thrown. 
In high and holy singleness, alone. 
But mighty in tier God — and shall she now 
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow 1 
From the bright fountain of her glory turn. 
Or Did strange fire upon his altars burnl 
No ! severed land, midst rocks and billows rude. 
Throned in thy majesty of solitude, 
M 



Still in the deep asylum of thy breast 

Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, 

Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, 

Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers i 

Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle ! 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile. 
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes, 
That guard the peasant's records and remains, 
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell 
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell. 
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades. 
When starlight glimmers through the deepening 

shades. 
Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise, 
And bear the Land's warm incense to the skies. 

There may the mother, as with anxious joy 
To Heaven her lessons consecrate her boy. 
Teach his young accents still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days, 
When Angels, whispering through the cedar's 

shade. 
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp conveyed ; 
And as, her soul all ghstening in her eyes, 
She bids the prayer of infancy arise. 
Tell of his name, who left his throne on high, 
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify. 
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried. 
And fondly say—" My child, for thee He died!" 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 150, col. 1. 

Patient, because Eternal. 

" He is patient, because He is eternal.' 

St. Augustine, 

Note 2, page 150, col. 1. 
Fly, to the City of tiiy Refuge, fly I 
" Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities 
of refuge for you ; that the slayer may flee thither 
which killeth any person at unawares. — And they 
shall be unto you cities for refuge from the aven- 
ger." — Numbers, chap. xxxv. 

Note 3, page 150, col. 2. 
And dark the chambers of its imagery. 
" Every man in the chambers of his imagery." 
Ezekiel, chap, viii. 

Note 4, page 151, col. 2. 
Must drink the cup of trembling. 
" Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of 
trembhng, and wrung them out." — Isaiah, chap. ii. 

Note 5, page 151, col. 2. 
Come in the still small voice, and wiiisper — peace. 
" And behold, the Lord pas.sed by, and a great 



154 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



and sr^ong wind rent the mountains, and brake in | not in the fire : and after the fire a still small 

liieceb he rocks before the Lord; but the Lord i voice."— 1 ITot^s, chap. xix. 

was nc- in the wind : and after the wind an earth- jv^ote 6, page 153, col. L 

quake ; but the Lord was not in the earthquake : To set the sign of fire on every heignt. 

and after the earthquake a fire ; but the Lord was | " And set up a sign of fire." — Jeremiah, chap, iv 



^ 



" Among many nations was tiiere no liing like liim." — Nebemiah. 

"Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel!" — Samuel. 



Another warning sound ! the funeral bell, 

Startling the cities of the isle once more, 
With measured tones of melancholy swell, 

Strikes on th' awakened heart from shore to 
shore. 
He, at whose coming monarchs sink to dust. 

The chambers of our palaces hath trod, 
And the long-suffering spirit of the just, 

Pure from its ruins, hath returned to God ! 
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep ; 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too 
deep. 

Vain voi&e of Reason, hush ! — they yet must flow. 

The unrestrained, involuntary tears 
A thousand feelings sanctify the wo. 

Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years. 
Tell us no more 't is not the time for grief, 

Now that the exile of the soul is past, 
And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief. 

Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last; 
For him. Eternity hath tenfold day. 
We feel, we know, 't is thus — yet Nature will 
have way. 

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak, 
Saddening the scene where once it nobly reign- 
ed, 

A dread memorial of the lightning-stroke, 

Stamped with its fiery record, he remained ; 

Around that shattered tree still fondly clung 
Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew 

Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung 
Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true ; 

While England hung her trophies on the stem. 

That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of them unconscious ! Oh mysterious doom ! 

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skiesi 
tlis was the voice which roused, as from the tomb. 

The realms high soul to loftiest energies ! 
I lis was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw 

The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought 
In every 'oosom, powerful to renew 

Each dying sprtV nt xwf and generous thought; 



The star of tempest ! beaming on the mast,* 
The seamen's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deep- 
ening fast. 

Then from th' unslumbering influence of his 

worth. 
Strength, as of inspiration, filled the land; 
A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly 
forth. 

Kindled by him — who saw it not expand ! 
Such was the will of Heaven, — the gifted seer. 

Who with his God had communed, face to face, 
And from the house of bondage, and of fear, 

In faith victorious, led the chosen race ; 
He, through the desert and the waste their guide, 
Saw dimly from afar, the promised land — and died 

O full of days and virtues ! on thy head 

Centred the woes of many a bitter lot ; 
Fathers have sorrowed o'er their beauteous dead. 
Eyes, quenched in night, the sun beam have 
forgot ; 
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years. 
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at 
length ; 
But Pain for thee had filled a cup of tea fs. 

Where every anguish mingled all its strength ; 
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, 
And shadows deep around fell from th' Eternal's 
hand. 

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams. 

Perchance of yore, had faintly prophesied; 
But what to thee the splendor of its beams'? 

The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's 
pride ! 
Nations leaped up to joy — as streams that burst 

At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain. 
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they 
nursed, 

Roll in exulting melody again ; 



• The glittering meteor, like a star, wnich often appears 
about a ship during tempests, if seen upon tlie main-mast, is 
considered by the sailors as an omen of good weather.— See 
Dajnvier's Vouaees. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE KING. 



ISf) 



And bright o'er earth the long majestic line 
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts 
but thine. 

Oh ! what a dazzling vision, by the veil 

That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee. 
When sceptred chieftains thronged, with palms, 
to hail 

The crowning isle, the anointed of the sea ! 
Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice, — rich pageants glittered by, 
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth, 

The old magnificence of chivalry. 
They reached not thee, — amidst them, yet alone, 
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy 
throne. 

Yet was there mercy still — if joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude, 
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er 

The silent limits of its solitude ! 
If all unheard the bridal song awoke 

Our hearts' full echoes, as it swelled on high ; 
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke 

On the glad strain, with dread solemnity ! , 
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom, 
Alike unfelt the storm, that swept it to the tomb. 

And she, who, tried through all the stormy past. 

Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour, 
Watched o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last, 

Sustained, inspired, by strong affection's power; 
If to thy soul her voice no music bore. 

If thy closed eye, and wandering spirit caught 
No light from looks, that fondly would explore 

Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought ; 
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have 

thrilled 
Thine inmost heart, when Death that anxious 
bosom stilled. 

Thy loved ones fell around thee — manhood's 
prime, 
Youth, with its glory, in its fulness. Age, 
All at the gates of their eternal clime 

Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage ; 
The land wore ashes for its perished flowers, 
Tiie grave's imperial harvest. Thou, mean- 
while, 
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers. 

The one that wept not in the tearful isle ! 
As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain, 
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and 
the slain. 

And who can tell what visions might be thine? 

The stream of thought, though broken, still was 
pure ! 
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine, 

"Where earthly image would no more endure ! 



Though many a step, of once familiar sound, 
Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear, 

And voices breathed forgotten tones around, 
Wliich that paternal heart once thrilled to hear, 

The mind hath senses of its own, and powers 

To people boundless worlds, in its most wander- 
ing hours. 

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known 

Be dark or wild, crea.tions of remorse; 
Unstained by thee, the blameless past had thrown 

No fearful shadows o'er the future's course; 
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss. 

Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's 
eye; 
And closing up each avenue of bliss. 

Murmur their summons, to "despair and die '" 
No ! e'en though joy depart, ttiough reason cease, 
Still virtue's ruined home is redolent of peace. 

They might be with thee still — the loved, the tried, 

The fair, the lost — they might be with thee still ! 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill ; 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of the last requiem o'er their dust was poured, 
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float 

Those forms, from us withdrawn — to thee re- 
stored ! 
Spirits of holiness, in liglit revealed. 
To commune with a mind whose source of tears 
was sealed. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds above, 

Those viewless regions, where the weary rest? 
Severed from earth, estranged from mortal love. 

Was thy mysterious converse with the blest 1 
Or shone their visionary presence bright 

With human beauty? — did their smiles renew 
Those days of sacred and serene delight. 

When fairest beings in tliy pathway grew 1 
Oh ! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes, 
Healing the broken heart; it smites- but ne'er 
forsakes. 

These may be phantasies — and this alont. 

Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure ; 
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own. 

Rest, in tiiy God immortally secure ! 
Enough for tranquil faith ; released from all 

The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thj 
brow. 
No cloud to dim, no fetter to inthral, 

Hajily thine eye is on thy people now , 
Whose love around thee still its offerings sheJ, 
Though vainly svvcct as flowers, grief's tribute to 
the dead. 

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind. 

Borne on the wings of Mornir g, to ine stMs.. 



156 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



May cast one glance of tenderness behind, 
On scenes, once hallowed by its mortal ties, 

How much hast thou to gaze on ! all that lay 
By the dark mantle of thy soul concealed. 

The might, the majesty, the proud array 
Of England's march o'er many a noble field, 

All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light. 

Shine like some glorious land, viewed from an Al- 
pine height. 

Away presumptuous thought ! — departed saint ! 

To thy freed vision what can earth display 
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint, 

Seen from the birth-place of celestial day? 
Oh ! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays, 

E'en in their fervour of meridian heat, 
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze 

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat ! 
And thou mayest view, from thy divine abode, 
The dust of empires flit, before the breath of 
God, 

And yet we mourn thee ! yes ! thy place is void 
Within our hearts — there veiled thine image 
dwelt, 
But cherished still ; and o'er that tie destroyed, 
Though Faith rejoice, fond Nature still must 
melt. 
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway, 

Thousands were born, who now in dust repose. 
And many a head, with years and sorrows gray. 
Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star 
arose; 
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, 
Hath filled our sphere with light, now to its source 
withdrawn. 



Earthquakes have rocked the nations : — things re> 
vered, 

Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down 
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition reared 

His lonely pyramid of dread renown. 
But when the fires, that long had slumbered, pen? 

Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force. 
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent, 

And swept each holy barrier from their course, 
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood. 
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks 
stood. 

Be they eternal ! — Be thy children found 

Still, to their country's altars, true like thee ; 
And, while " the name of Briton" is a sound 

Of rallying music to the brave and free. 
With the high feelings, at the word which swell, 

To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame. 
Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well, 

Who left so pure, its heritage of fame ! 
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust, 
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the 
just. 

All else shall pass away — the thrones of kings, 

The very traces of their tombs depart; 
But number not with perishable things 

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart. 
Heir-looms from race to race ! — and oh ! in days, 

When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, 
When our sons learn, " as household words," thy 
praise, 

Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest 1 
And many a name of that imperial line, 
Father and patriot ! blend, in England's soiigi, 
with thine ! 



A POEM. 



O Greece ! thou sapient nurae of finer arts, 
Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, 
Be this thy praise, and thou, and thou alone, 
In these hast led the way, in these excelled, 
Crowned with the laurel of assenting Time. 

T/wmsoji^s Liberty. 



I. 

Oh! who itath trod thy consecrated clime. 
Fair land of Phidias ! theme of lofty strains! 
And traced each scene, that, 'midst the wrecks 

of time. 
The print of Glory's parting step retains; 
IVor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot. 
Musing on years gone by in brightness there. 
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot, 
The liuea his fate hath worn, or yet may wear; 



As when from mountain-heights, his ardent eye 
Of sea and heaven hath tracked the blue infinity I 

II. 

Is there who views with cold, unaltered mien, 
His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught, 
Each sacred liaimt, each unforgotten scene. 
Where Freedom triumphed, or where' Wisdom 

taught 1 
Souls that too deeply feel, oh, envy not 
The sullen calm your fate hath never known: 



MODERN GREECbJ. 



If): 



Through the dull twilight of that wintry lot 
Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam 

ohone, 
Nor those high thoughts, that, hailing Glory's 
trace, 
Glow with the generous flames of every age and 
race. 

III. 

But blest the wanderer, whose enthusiast mind 
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued 
With lofty lore; and all his thoughts refined 
In the calm school of silent solitude; 
Poured on his ear, 'midst groves and glens retired, 
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime, 
All that hath lived, while empires have expired. 
To float for ever on the winds of Time ; 
And on his soul indelibly portrayed 
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. 

IV. 

Is not his mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, 
A sanctuary of beauty and of light? 
There he may dwell, in regions all his own, 
A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright. 
For him the scenes of old renown possess 
Romantic charms, all veiled from other eyes ; 
There every form of nature's loveliness 
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies ; 
As music's voice, in some lone mountain-dell, 
From rocks and caves around calls forth each 
echo's swell. 



For him Italia's brilliant skies illume 
The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat- 
plains, 
And the wild-rose yet lives to breathe and bloom. 
Round Doric Psestum's solitary fanes. (1) 
But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore 
He feels the fervors of his spirit rise; 
Thou birth-place of the Muse ! whose voice, of 

yore. 
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies; 
And lingers still around the well-known coast, 
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom 
lost. 

VI. 

By seas, that flow in brightness as they lave 
Thy rocks, th' enthusiast, rapt in thought, may 

stray, 
While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave, 
Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. 
— O ye blue waters! ye, of old tliat bore 
The free, the conquering, hymned by choral 

strains. 
How sleep ye now around the silent shore, 
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains! 
Ifi 



Plow are the mighty vanished in their pride! 
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your vide. 

VII. 

Hushed are the Pfeans whose exulting tone 
Swelled o'er that tide(2) — the sons of battle 

sleep — 
The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice, alone 
Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid 

hues 
Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, 
Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse 
With all their purple mellowness of light, 
Oh ! who could view the scene, so calmly fair, 
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty, were 
there ? 

VIII. 

Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs 

blow, 
'T is hard to deem that misery can be nigh; 
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence 

glow. 
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky; 
— Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead, 
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may 

smile. 
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the ruined pile ; 
And mantling woodbine veils the withered 

tree, — 
And thus it is, fair land, forsaken Greece ! with 
thee. 

IX. 

For all the loveHness, and light, and bloom, 
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, 
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the 

tomb. 
The rose's blush that masks the canker-worm I— 
And thou art desolate — thy morn hath passed 
So dazzling in the splendor of its way. 
That the dark shades the night hath o'er Ihee 

cast 
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair. 
Thy fate hath been unmatched — in glory and 
despair. 

X. 

For thee, lost land! the hero's blood bath .'lowea, 
Tlie high in soul have brightly lived ami dicni ; 
For thee the light of soaring genius glowed 
O'er the fair arts it forracd and glorified. 
Thine were the minds, whose energies sulil-n.^- 
So distanced ages in their liglitiiiiig-race, 
Tlie task tliey left tlie sons of lat"-* time 
Was but to follow their illumined trace. 



158 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



— Now, bowed to earth, thy children, to be free, 
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts 
to thee. 

XI. 

Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,(3) 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales. 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest 7 — Alas! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm, 
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, 
Where patriarchs reigned of old in pastoral repose. 

XII. 

Where Syria's mountains rise,or Yemen's groves. 
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, 
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves. 
Wears but two forms — the tyrant and the slave ! 
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde. 
Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning 

wild. 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword. 
O'er plains that smile, as ancient Eden smiled ; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, 
Y'ield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. 

XIII. 
But thou, fair world ! whose fresh, unsullied 

charms 
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave. 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,(4) 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave 1 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast. 
In the green depths of thine untrodden glades. 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last 1 
Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene. 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er hath 
been. 

XIV. 
There, by some lake, whose blue, expansive breast 
Bright from afar, an inland-ocean, gleams, 
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dressed 
In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams; 
Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain 

pours 
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 
'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores. 
The exiled Greek hath fixed his sylvan home : 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian hunts- 
man's feet. 

XV. 
The forests are around him in their pride. 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; 



And isles of flo wers,bright-floating o'er the tide,(t-; 
That images the fairy world it laves, 
And stillness, and luxuriance — o'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bower.s 
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers, 
And from those green arcades a thousand tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Na- 
ture's temple moans. 

XVI. 

And there, no traces left by brighter days, 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief. 
Some grassy mound perchance may meet his gaze 
The lone memorial of an Indian chief. 
There man not yet hath marked the boundless 

plain 
With marble records of his fame and power ; 
The forest is his everlasting fane. 
The palm his monument, the rock his tower. 
Th' eternal torrent, and the giant tree. 
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. 

XVII. 
But doth the exile's heart serenely there 
In sunshine dweiH — Ah! when was exile blesti 
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or sum 

mer-air, 
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest 1 
— There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, 
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow. 
And shrines itself in mental solitude, 
An uncomplaining and a nameless wo. 
That coldly smiles 'midst pleasure's brightest ray 
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of daj': 

XVIII. 

Such grief is theirs, who, fixed on foreign shore, 
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales. 
As pines the seaman, 'midst the ocean's roar, 
For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. 
Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with 

thee. 
Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou art : 
Though thought and step in western wilds be free, 
Yet thine are still the day-dreams of his heart; 
The deserts spread between, the billows foam, 
Thou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's home. 

XIX. 
In vain for him the gay Hannes entwine, 
Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, 
Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine. 
As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. 
Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while, 
Or breathes the freshness of Cithcsron's height, 
Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would smile, 
Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light ; 
On Corinth's cliflT what sunset hues may sleep. 
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' Egean deep ! 



XX. 

What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like 

thine? 
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy!) 
E'en to tlie stranger's roving eye they shine, 
Soft as a vision of remembered joy. 
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, 
A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill, 
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay, 
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still ; 
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore, 
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more. 

XXI. 

Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine 
That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal. 
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine. 
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel 
Amidst the tomb of heroes — for the brave 
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil, 
Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save 
The land redeemed and hallowed by their toil ; 
And there is language in thy lightest gale. 
That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring 
yet their tale. 

XXII. 

And he, whose heart is weary of the strife 
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze 
Would shun the dull, cold littleness of life, 
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days, 
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems 
With proud remembrances that can not die. 
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams. 
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; 
And 'midst thy laurel shades tlie wanderer hears 
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish- 
ed years. 

XXIIl. 

Through that deep solitude be his to stray. 
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past. 
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way 
Through the cleft heights, in antique grandeur 

vast. 
Romantic Tempe ! thou art yet the same — 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time :(6) 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic 

name, (7) 
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts, and marble caves, 
In living lustre still break forth the fountain-waves. 

XXIV. 

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries gIow,(8) 
Or 'midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, 
Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow, | 



Oft shall the pilgrim paiise, in lone recess. 

As rock and stream some glancing light ha'ie 

caught. 
And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress 
His soul with deep sublimity of thought; 
And linger oft, recalling many a tale. 
That breeze, and wave, and wood, seem whisper- 
ing through thy dale. 

XXV. 

He, thought-entranced, may wander where of 

old 
From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapor rose, 
And trembling nations heard their doom foretold, 
By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks and 

snows. 
Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust 
And silence now the hallowed haunt possess, 
Still is the scene of ancient rites august, 
Magnificent in mountain loneliness; 
Still Inspiration hovers o'er the ground. 
Where Greece her councils held,(9) her Pythian 
victors crowned. 

XXVI. 

Or let his steps the rude, gray cliffs explore 
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood. 
When by the waves that break on ffita's shore, 
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood ! 
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain. 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead,(10) 
Or lone Platsea's ruins yet remain, 
To mark the battle-field of ages fled 
Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power. 
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, 
grot, and bower. 

XXVII. 

Oh! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem 
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell, 
Where mortal worth has hallowed grove or 

stream. 
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell, 
For mightiest minds have felt their blest control. 
In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh, 
And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul, 
And a high power, to Nature's majesty! 
Anfl who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel, 
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal 1 

XXVIII. 

Yet many a sad reality is there. 

That fancy's bright illusions can not veil. 

Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes iti* 

air. 
But Slavery's mein will tell its bitter tale , 
And there not Peace, but Desolation, throxr* 
Delusive qu'ct o'er full many a scone, 



ItiO 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Deep as the brooding torpor of repose 

That follows where the earthquake's track hath 

been; 
Or solemn calm, on Ocean's breast that lies, 
When sinks the storm, and death has hushed the 
seaman's cries. 

XXIX. 

Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurled 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, 
Doomed to resign the homage of a world. 
For Pity's deepest sigh, and saddest tearl 
Oh! hast thou watched the awful wreck of 

mind. 
That weareth still a glory in decay 1 
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind — 
Thought, science, genius, to the storm a prey. 
And o'er the blasted tree, the withered ground, 
Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly 
flourish round 7 

XXX. 

So mayest thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck 

thought. 
On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime : 
Such there the ruin Time and Fate have 

wrought. 
So changed the bright, the splendid, the sub- 
lime ! 
There the proud monuments of Valor's name. 
The mighty works Ambition piled on high. 
The rich remains by Art bequeathed to Fame — 
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and sym- 
metry, 
Blend in decay ; while all that yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perished 
there ! 

XXXI. 

There, while around lie mingling in the dust, 
The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'er- 

grown. 
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust, 
The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone ; 
Amidst the loneliness of shattered fanes, 
Still matchless monuments of other years, 
O'er cypress groves, or solitary plains, 
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears ; 
As on some capave city's ruined wall 
The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its fall, 

XXXII. 

Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, 
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste. 
There science droops, the Muses hush their 

lyres, 
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste 



Spreads the chill blight — as in that orient isle, 
Where the dark upas taints the gale around,(ll) 
Within its precincts not a flower may smile, 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground ; 
Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. 

XXXIII. 

Far other influence poured the Crescent's light, 
O'er conquered realms, in ages past away, 
Full and alone it beamed, intensely bright. 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and 

shades, 
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers : 
Its sculptured lions, (12) richly wrought arcades, 
Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers; 
Light, splendid, wild as some Arabian tale 
Would picture fairy domes, that fleet before the 
gale. 

XXXIV. 

Then fostered genius lent each Caliph's throne 
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 
And stars unnumbered o'er the orient shone. 
Bright as that Pleiad, shrined in Mecca's 

fane. (13) 
From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains 
Rose and reechoed to the desert's bound. 
And Science, wooed on Egypt's burning plains, 
Reared her majestic head with glory crowned; 
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore, 
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. 

XXXV. 

Those years have passed in radiance — they 

have passed. 
As sinks the day-star in the tropic main ; 
His parting beams no soft; reflection cast. 
They burn — are quenched — and deepest sha- 
dows reign. 
And Fame and Science have not left a trace, 
In the vast regions of the Moslem's power, — 
Regions, to intellect a desert space, 
A wild without a fountain or a flower, 
Where towers oppression 'midst the deepening 
glooms, 
As dark and lone ascends the cypress 'midst the 
tombs, 

XXXVI. 

Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia poured 
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall, 
When Europe sheathed, in apathy, her sword, 
And heard unmoved the fated city's call. 
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line 
Of spears and banners round a falling throne 
And thou, O last and noblest Constantiu'} !(14]' 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. 



MODERN GREECE. 



161 



Oh ! blest to die in freedom, though in vain, 
Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and not 
the chain. 

XXXVII. 

Hushed is Byzantium — 't is the dead of night — 
The closing night of that imperial race !(15) 
And all is vigil — but the eye of light 
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace : 
There is a murmuring stillness on the train, 
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die; 
And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane. 
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye ; 
And, in his heart while faith's bright visions 

rise. 
There kneels the high-souled prince, the summoned 

of the skies. 

XXXVIII. 

Day breaks in light and glory — 't is the hour 
Of conflict and of fate — the war-note calls — 
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power 
To the brave few that guard the rampart walls. 
Far over Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in every note ; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel, 
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float; 
From camp and wave rush on the crescent's host. 
And the Seven Towers(16) are scaled, and all is 
won and lost. 

XXXIX. 

Then, Greece! the tempest rose, that burst on 

thee. 
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage ! 
Oh ! where were then thy sons, the great, the 

free 1 
Whose deeds are guiding-stars from age to age? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows. 
And bright the memory of thy days of pride. 
In mountain might though Corinth's fortress 

rose, 
On, unresisted, rolled th' invading tide! 
Oh ! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower. 
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's uncon- 

quered power. 

XL. 

Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless 

might 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane,(17) 
When through the steep defiles to Delphi's 

height. 
In martial splendor poured the Persian's train! 
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, 
Armed wilh the elements, to vengeance wake, 
Ca'' the dread storms to darken round their tow- 
ers, 
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break; 
IB* 



Till far around, with deep and fearful clang. 
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus 
rang. 

XLI. 

Where was the spirit of the victor-throng. 
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, 
Whose names are bright in everlasting song, 
The lordt7 of war, the praised, the deified 1 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays. 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose(18) 
All armed ; and beaming on th' Athenian's gaze, 
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes'? 
Or they whose forms, to Alaric's awe-struck 
_eye,(19) 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed, in airy panoply ? 

XLII. 

Ye slept, oh heroes! chief ones of the earth !(20) 
High demi-gods of ancient days ! ye slept, 
Their lived no spark of your ascendant worth, 
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept; 
No patriot then the sons of freedom led, 
In mountain-pass devotedly to die ; 
The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled. 
And the high soul's unconquered buoyancy; 
And by your graves, and on your battle-plains. 
Warriors ! your children knelt, to wear the stran- 
ger's chains. 

XLIII. 

Now have your trophies vanished, and your 

homes 
Are mouldered from the earth, while scarce re- 
main 
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slaill. 
Your deeds are with the deeds of glory flown, 
The lyres are hushed that swelled your fame 

afar, 
The halls that echoed to their sounds are gone, 
Perished the conquering weapons of your 

war;(21) 
And if a massy stone your names retain, 
'T is but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain. 

XLIV. 

Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands. 
That with those names tradition hallows yet, 
Oft shall the wandering son of otiier lands 
Linger in solemn thought and hushed regret. 
And still have legends marked the lonely spot 
Whore low the dust of Agamemnon lies; 
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot, 
Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. 
Souls of the heroes I seek your rest again 
Nor mark how clianged the realms that saw your 
glory's reign. 



162 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XLV. 

Lo, where th Albanian spreads his despot sway 
O'er Thes«aly's rich vales and glowing plains, 
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, 
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains: 
Oh ! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, 
And many a chief of old, illustrious line. 
Yield not one spirit of unconquered worth. 
To kindle those that now in bondage pine 1 
No ! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath. 
And terror chills the hearts whose uttered plaints 
were death. 

XLVI. 

Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, 
How rich in charms were that romantic clime, 
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys 

fair, 
And walled with mountains, haughtily sublime. 
Heights, that might, well be deemed the Muses' 

reign. 
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies, 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain ; 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
That love, where nought of earth may e'er in- 
trude, 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. 

XLVII. 

There in rude grandeur, daringly ascends 
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height; 
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, 
Frowning o'er vales, in woodland verdure bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride, 
There througli the deep-blue heaven Olympus 

towers, 
Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide 
The rock-built palace of immortal powers ; 
Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, 
Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. 

XLVIIL 

Those savage cliffs and soHtudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would 

roam ; 
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream, 
And make the rocky fastnesses her home. 
And in the rushing of the mountain-flood. 
In the wild eagle's solitary cry, 
fn sweeping winds that peal through cave and 

wood, 
There is a voice of stern sublimity, 
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood 
Oi solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. 

XLIX. 

But from those hills the radiance of her smile 
Halh vanished long, her step hath fled aftir ; 



O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused awhile,(5i-2 
Kindhng the watch-fires of the mountain-war; 
And brightly glowed her ardent spirit there. 
Still brightest 'midst privation; o'er distress 
It cast romantic splendour, and despair 
But fanned that beacon of the wilderness; 
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell 
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice tc 
swell. 



Dark children of the hills ! 't was then ye wrought 
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand ; 
As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought, 
And woman mingled with your warrior-band. 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood(23) 
High o'er the river's darkly-rolling-wave. 
And hurled, in dread delirium, to the flood. 
Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. 
For all was lost — all, save the power to die 
The wild, indignant death of savage liberty, 

LI. 

Now is that strife a tale of vanished days, 
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie; 
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, 
Deeds less adventurous, energies less liigh. 
And the dread struggle's fearful memory still 
O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws ; 
Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hifl, 
More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; 
Lends to the rusthng pines a deeper moan. 
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. 

LII. 

For stillness now — the stillness of the dead. 
Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene, 
And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread. 
Tell where the storming of the clifl^s hath beeii. 
And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude, 
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain 1 
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, 
Where Freedom's banner may be reared again 
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, 
The children of her sons inherit but their name. 

LIII. 

Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and 

fanes ! 
In scattered fragments o'er the vale they lie ! 
Of all they were not e'en enough remains 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty .(34) 
Birth-place of those whose names we first re 

vered 
In song and story — temple of the free! 
Oh thou, the stern, the haughty, and the feared 
Are such tliy relics, and can this be thee 1 
Thou shouldst have left a giant-wreck behind. 
And e'en in ruin claimed the wonder of mankiuf} 



MODERN GREECE. 



163 



LIV. 

For lliino were spirits cast in other mould 
Than ail beside — and proved by ruder test; 
They stood alone — the proud, the /inn, the bold, 
"With the same seal indelibly imprest. 
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind. 
One image stamped the rough, colossal race, 
In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind, 
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace. 
As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, 
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not 
rear the flower, 

LV. 

Such were thy sons — their Ufe a battle-day ! 
Their youth one lesson how for- thee to die! 
Closed is that task, and they have passed away 
Like softer beings trained to aims less high. 
Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, 
True to their shields, the champions of thy 

cause. 
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws !(25) 
O lofty mother of heroic worth. 
How couldst thou live to bring a meaner ofTspring 
forth 1 

LVI. 

Hadst thou but perished with the free, nor 

known 
A second race, when Glory's noon went by, 
Then had thy name in single brightness shone 
A watch-word on the helm of liberty ! 
Thou shouldst have passed with all thy light of 

fame, 
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. 
But slowly set thy star 'midst clouds of shame, 
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes ; 
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves, 
Hast drained the bitter cup once mingled for thy 
slaves. 

LVII. . 

Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown 
Freedom's bright noon, and slavery's twilight 

cloud; 
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, 
Deep solitude is round thee, as a shroud. 
Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low. 
From tlicir cold altars have thy Lares fled. 
O'er thee unmarked the sun-beams fade or glow, 
And wild flowers wave, unbent by human tread. 
And 'midst thy silence, as the grave's profound, 
A voice, a step would seem as some unearthly 
sound. 

LVIIl. 

Taygetus still lifts his awful brow, 

£Iigh o'er the mouldering city of the dead. 



Sternly sublime; while o er his robe of snow 
Heaven's floating tints their warm suifusiona 

spread. 
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads 
By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain. 
While whispering there, his own wild graceful 

reeds 
Rise as of old, when hailed by classic strain; 
There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave,(26j 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta'a 

grave. 

LIX. 

Oh ! thus it is with man — a tree, a flower, 
While nations perish, still renews its race, 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
The laurel shoots when those have passed away 
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free ; 
The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay. 
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be 
Green waves the bay when song and bard are 
fled. 
And all that round us blooms, is blooming o'er the 
dead. 

LX. 

And still the olive spreads its foliage round 
Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers. 
Once its green boughs Minerva's votaries crown- 
ed. 
Deemed a meet ofl!ering for celestial powers. 
The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore;(27) 
They waved around th' Olympic victor's head; 
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, 
Its leaves the Spartan's honored bier o'erspread : 
Those rites have vanished — but o'er vale and hill 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallowed 
still.(28) 

LXI. 

Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy 

fane 
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high"? 
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train. 
The long procession's awful pageantry? 
Q,uenched is the torch of Ceres(29) — all arountf 
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign, 
There never more shall choral hymns resound, 
O'er the hushed earth and solitary main ; 
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, 
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. 

LXII. 

And oh ! ye secret and terrific powers. 
Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt, 
How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers, 
Where Superstition trembled as she knelt I 



64 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones ! that made 
The elements your voice, the wind and wave; 
Spirits ! whose influence darkened many a shade, 
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! 
How long your power the awe-struck nations 
swayed, 
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly 
obeyed! 

LXIII. 

And say, what marvel, in those early days, 
While yet the light of heaven-born truth was 

not, 
If man around him cast a fearful gaze, 
PeopUng with shadowy powers each dell and 

grot? 
Awful is Nature in her savage forms, 
Her solemn voice commanding in its might. 
And mystery then was in the rush of storms. 
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night ; 
And mortals heard fate's language in the blast, 
And reared your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of 
the past! 

LXIV. 

Then through the foliage not a breeze might 

sigh 
But with prophetic sound — a waving tree, 
A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, 
A bird's wild flight, revealed the things to be. 
All spoke of unseen natures and conveyed 
Their inspiration ; still they hovered round, 
Hallowed the temple, whispered through the 

shade. 
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound ; 
Of them the fount, the forest, murmured still, 
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on 
the hill. 

LXV. 

Now is the train of Superstition flown, 
Unearthly Beings walk on earth no more ; 
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone, 
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore, 
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's cave. 
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep ; 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave,(30) 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror 

sleep. 
Oh ! that such dreams alone had fled that clime, 
Gut Greece is changed in all that could be changed 

by time' 

LXVI. 

Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard 
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams : 
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard. 
Her vales, that fostered art's divinest dreams ! 



But that bright spirit o'er the land ihat shone, 
And all around pervading influence poured, 
That lent the harp of iEschylus its tone. 
And proudly hallowed Lacedaemon's sword. 
And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone, 
With them its ardorus lived — with them its light is 
flown. 

LXVII. 

Thebes, Corinth, Argos I — ^ye, renowned of old. 
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name 1 
How soon the tale of ages may be told I 
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame, 
The work of centuries — we gaze on you, 
Oh cities ! once the glorious and the free. 
The lofty tales that charmed our youth renew, 
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could 

be-? 
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb. 
And find the mosque alone — a record of their 
doom! 

LXVIII. 

How oft hath war his host of spoilers poured, 
Fair Elis ! o'er thy consecrated vales 1(31) 
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and 

sword. 
And banners floated on the balmy gales. 
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude 
As some enchanted isle 'mid stormy seas; 
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, 
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. 
Forsaken home of peace ! that spell is broke. 
Thou too hast heard the storm and bowed beneath 
the yoke. 

LXIX. 

And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats 
Far other sounds have echoed than the strain 
Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, 
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain ! 
There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys, 
On his green banlcs renewed, the classic dance. 
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays, 
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance ; 
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell, 
'Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, 
and dell. 

LXX. 

But thou, fair Attica 1 whose rocky bound 
All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined, 
Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round 
Concentrated each sunbeam oi the mind ; 
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height 
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day. 
Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light. 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray;(32^ 



MODERN GREECE. 



165 



Oh ! let us go.ze on thee, and fondly deem 
The past awhile restored, the present hut a dream. 

LXXI. 

Let Fancy's vivid hues awhile prevail — 
Wake at her call — be all thou wert once more ! 
Elark, hymns of triumph swell on every gale! 
Lo, briglit processions move along thy shore ! 
Again thy temples 'midst the olive-shade. 
Lovely in chaste svmplicity arise ; 
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, 
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies ; 
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly 
mien, 
In their calm beauty smile, around the sun-bright 
scene. 

Lxxn. 

Again renewed by thought's creative spells, 
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus! towers: 

■ Within, around, the light of glory dwells 
On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. 
Their marble fanes in finished grace ascend. 
The pencil's world of life and beauty glows ; 
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, 
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes ; 
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride. 

The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus' tide. 

Lxxin. 

Bright as that fairy vision of the wave. 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand,(33) 
On summer seas, that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand ;. 
That pictured scene of airy colonnades, 
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest. 
Enchanting groves, and temples, and arcades, 
Gleaming and floating on the ocean's breast ; 
Athens ! thus fair the dream of thee appears, 
h.e Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of years. 

LXXIV. 

btill be that cloud withdrawn — oh! mark on 

high. 
Clowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, 
That fane, august in perfect symmetry. 
The purest model of Athenian taste. 
Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise 
Tn simple dignity, thy marble's hue 
Unsullied shines, relieved by briUiant skies. 
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue; 
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws 
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 

LXXV. 

And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow, 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign, 
And on t!iy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. 



Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold 
Each latent grace, developing in light, 
Catch from soft clouds of purple and of gold, 
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright; 
And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems. 
While so sufiused with heaven, so mingling witii 
its beams. 

LXXVL 

But oh ! what words the vision may portray, 
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrincl 
There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array, 
Supremely glorious, avvfully divine 1 
With spear and helm she stands, and flowdiig 

vest. 
And sculptured aegis, to perfection wrought^ 
And on each heavenly lineament imprest. 
Calmly subhme, the majesty of thought; 
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose, — 
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws. 

Lxxvn. 

Bright age of Pericles ! let fancy still 
Through Time's deep shadows all thy splendoui 

trace. 
And in each work of art's consummate skill 
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race. 
That spirit, roused by every proud reward. 
That hope could picture, glory could bestow, 
Fostered by all the sculptor and the bard 
Could give of immortality below. 
Thus were thy heroes formed, and o'er their nam« 
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. 

Lxxvin. 

Mark in the thronged Ceramicus, the train 
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyred brave : 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain. 
Holy the amaranth strewed upon their grave !(34^ 
And hark — unrivalled eloquence proclaims 
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant 

voice I 
Hark! Pericles records theirhonourednames!(35) 
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice: 
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom 7 
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the 

tomb "J 

LXXIX. 

Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth, 
Theirs are enshrined names, and every heart 
Shall bear the blazoned impress of their worth. 
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall 

rise. 
Their fields of fight shall epic song record, 
And when the voice of battle rends the skies, 
Their name shall be their country's rallyuia 

word I 



While lane ana column rise august to tell 
>iow Athens honours those for her who proudly 
fell. 

LXXX. 

City of Theseus ! bursting on the mintl, 
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! 
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, 
Thus hallowed by the memory of the dead : 
Alone in beauty and renown — a scene 
Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveliest 

ray. 
'T is but a vision now — yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray ; 
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught 
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty 
thought. 

LXXXI. 

Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 
To choral melodies, and tragic lore ; 
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, 
The song that hails Harmodius peals no more. 
Thy proud Pirsus is a desert strand, 
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill, 
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's hand, 
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; 
Minerva's veil is rent(36) — her image gone, 
Silent the sage's bower — the warrior's tomb o'er- 
thrown. 

LXXXII. 

Yet in decay thine exquisite remains 
Wondering we view, and silently revere 
As traces left on earth's forsaken plains 
By var\jshed beings of a nobler sphere ! 
Not all the old magnificence of Rome, 
All that dominion there hath left to time, 
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, 
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, 
Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal. 
As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic 
seal. 

LXXXIII. 

Though still the empress of the sun-burnt waste. 

Palmyra rises, desolately grand — 

Though with rich gold(37) and massy sculpture 

graced, 
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand 
In haughty solitude — though sacred Nile 
The first-born temples of the world surveys, 
And many an awful and stupendous pile 
Thebes of the hundre- gates e'en yet displays ; 
City of Pericles ! oh, who like thee 
f&a teach how fair the works of mortal hand may 
bel 



LXXXIV. 

Thou led'st the way to that illumined sphere 
Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence 

didst bear 
Oh, still triumphant in that high career ! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. 
And still to cnee th' enlightened mind hath flowc 
As to her country ; — thou hast been to earth 
A cynosure : — and, e'en from victory's throne, 
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth ; 
And nations rising to their fame afar, 
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. 

LXXXV. 

Glory to those whose relics thus arrest 
The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! 
For they, they only, could have thus imprest 
Their mighty image on the years to be! 
Empires and cities in oblivion lie, 
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot:— 
To leave on earth renown that can not die, 
Of high-souled genius is th' unrivalled lot. 
Honour to thee, O Athens ! thou hast shown 
What mortals may attain, and seized the palm 
alone, 

LXXXVI. 

Oh! live there those who view with scornful 

eyes 
All that attests the brightness of thy prime ! 
Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies. 
And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime ! 
Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead, 
Their homes are 'midst the works of noblest 

arts ; 
Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, 
Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. 
Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, 
Where genius first revealed the triumphs of his 
hand! 

LXXXVII. 

For them in vain the glowing light may smile, 
O'er the pale marble, colouring's warmth to 

shed, 
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile 
Still o'er the dust of heroes lift its head. 
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, 
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not 

reared, 
Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil 
But to destroy what ages have revered. 
As if exulting sternly to erase 
Whate'er might prove that land had nursed a no- 
bler race. 



MODERN GREECE. 



1(57 



LXXXVIII. 

And vvho may grieve that rescued from their 

hands, 
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, 
Thy relics, Athens ! borne to other lands. 
Claim homage still to thee from every heart 1 
Though now no more th' exploring stranger's 

sight, 
Fixed in deep reverence on Minerva's fane, 
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, 
All that remained of forms adored in vain; 
A few short years — and, vanished from the 

scene, 
T ■ blend with classic dust their proudest lot had 
been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone ! 
Empires have sunk since thou wcrt first revered, 
And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that reared 
Thy walls , and thou — their fate must soon be 

thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renewed in aught like 
thee? 

XC. 

Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moaned 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill. 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared: 
Yet art thou honoured in each fragment still, 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 

spared ; 
Each hallowed stone, from rapine's fury borne. 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet un- 
born. 

XCI. 

yes; in those fragments, though by time de- 
faced. 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm th' enlightened eye of taste, 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crushed myrtle, or the bruised rose. 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art, 
There in each wreck impcrishably glows !(38) 
The soul of Athens lives in every lino. 
Pervading brightly still the ruir.s of her shrine. 



XCIL 

Mark — on the storied frieze the graceful train, 
The holy festival's triumphal throng. 
In fair procession, to Minerva's fane, 
With many a sacred symbol move along. 
There every shade of bright existence trace, 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's calm austerity of grace, 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chiefs proud 
mien. 
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the 
scene. 

XCIII. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,(39) 
Each pure, chaste outline exquisitely flows; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression 

warm, (40) 
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole; 
Those varied groups the same bright impress 

bear; 
One beam and essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. 

XCIV. 

O conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain 
The subtle graces, fading as they rise. 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign. 
Arrest warm life in all its energies. 
And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine : while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquished 

fate! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, 
The realms that hail them now scarce claimed a 
name on earth. 

XCV. 

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return? 
No — we may hail again thy bright career, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ' 
Though thy least relics, e'en in rnin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath beet) t(*- 

newcd — 
A light inherent — let not man despair: 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued • 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine, 
And art hath won a world in models puro as 
thine.(4n 



XCVI. 
Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced — 
Yet there the germ of future glory Ues ! 
Their virtual grandeur could not be erased, 
It clothes them still, though veiled from common 

eyes. 
They once were gods and heroes(42)— and be- 
held 
As the blest guardians of their native scene ; 
And hearts of wrarriors, sages, bards, have swelled 
With awe that owned their sovereignty of mien. 
— Ages have vanished since those hearts were 
cold, 
And still those shattered forms retain their godlike 
mould. 

XCVII. 

'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble 

throne. 
They have looked down on thousand storms of 

time ; 
Surviving power and fame and freedom flown, 
They still remained, still tranquilly sublime ! 
Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marred. 
Th' Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot; 
Not e'en their dust could weeping Athens guard— 
— But these were destined to a nobler lot ! 
And they have borne, to light another land, 
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously ex- 
pand. 

XCVIII. 
Phidias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but 

thine, 
Inhuman works thus blending earth and heaven, 
O'er nature's truth hath shed that grace divine, 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given 1 
What soul but thine, infusing all its power, 
In these last monuments of matchless days, 
Could from their ruins, bid young Genius tower. 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise 1 
And guide deep thought to that secluded height. 
Where excellence is throned, in purity of light. 

XCIX. 
And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, 
Caught from these models, may illume the west ? 
What British Angelo may rise to fame,(43) 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest ? 
Deem not, O England ! that by climes confined, 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray ;(44) 
Deem not th' eternal energies of mind 
Swayed by that sun whose doom is but decay ! 
Shall thought be fostered but by skies serene 7 
No ! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er hath 
been. 

C. 

But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown. 
Ami cold neglect hath blighted many a mind. 



j O'er whose young ardours, had thy smile bui 

i shone, 

I Their soaring flight had left a world behind 

j And many a gifted hand, that might have wrought 
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone. 
Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught, 
Leaving no record of its power, is gone ! 
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast, 

Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and 
thus lost. 

CI. 

Yet rise, O Land in all but Art alone, 
Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! 
Fame dwells around thee — Genius is thine own; 
Call his rich blooms to life — be Thou their Sun ! 
So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep. 
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains, 
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep, 
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains ; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, 
And cry, " This ancient soil hath nursed a glori- 
ous race!" 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 157, col. 1. 
Round Doric Peestum's solitary fanes. 
" The Psestan rose, from its peculiar fragrance 
and the singularity of blowing twice a year, is of- 
ten mentioned by the classic poets. The wild rose, 
which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the 
small single damask kind, with a very high per- 
fume ; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flow- 
ers both in spring and autumn." — Swinburne's 
Travels in the Two Sicilies. 

Note 2, page 157, col. 3. 

Sv\rened o'er that tide— the sons of battle sleep. 

In the naval engagements of the Greeks, " it 
was usual for the soldiers before the fight to sing a 
psean, or hymn, to Mars, and after the fight ano- 
ther to Apollo." — See Potter's Antiquities of 
Greece, vol. ii. p. 155. 

Note 3, page 158, col. 1. 

Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies. 

The emigration of the natives of the Morea to 
different parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Cha- 
teaubriand in his " Itineraire de Paris a Jerusalem." 
— " Parvenu an dernier degre du malheur, le 
Moraite s'arrache de son pays, et va chercher en 
Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir ! il 
retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans less 
sables de Jourdain et dans les deserts de Palmvre/ 



MODERN GREECE. 



IG9 



Note 4, page 158, col. 1. 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms. 

In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates 
his having met with several Greek emigrants who 
had established themselves in the woods of Florida. 

Note 5, page 158, col. 2. 
And isles of flowere, bright-floating o'er the tide. 
" La grace est toujours unie a la magnificence 
dans les scenes de la nature: et tandis que le cou- 
rant du milieu entraine vers la mer les cadavres 
des pins et des chenes, on voit sur les deux courans 
lateraux remonter le long des rivages des lies 
flottantr's de Pistia et de Nenuphar, dont les roses 
jaunes s'elSvent comme de petits papillons." — 
Description of the banks oj^ the Mississippi, Cha- 
teauhriand's " Atala." 

Note 6, page 159, col. 1. 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time. 

" Looking generally at the narrowness and 
abruptness of this mountain-channel (Tempe) and 
contrasting it with the course of the Peneus, through 
the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly 
recurs to the tradition that these plains were once 
covered with water for which some convulsion of 
nature had subsequently opened this narrow pas- 
sage. The term vale, in our language, is usually 
employed to describe scenery in which the predo- 
minant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. 
The reader has already perceived that the term is 
wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and 
that the phrase vale of Tempe is one that depends 

on poetic fiction. The real character of 

Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet 
possesses more of magnificence man is implied in 

the epithet given to it. To those who 

have visited St. Vincent's rocks, below Bristol, 1 
can not convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, 
than by saying that its scenery resembles, though 
on a much larger scale, that of the former place. 
The Peneus indeed, as it Hows through the valley, 
is not greatly wider than the Avon ; and the chan- 
nel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its 
dimensions ; but these clifl^s themselves are much 
loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast 
masses of rock with still more extraordinary abrupt- 
ness over tlie hollow beneath." — Holland's Travels 
in Albania, cf'C. 

Note 7, page 159, col. 1. 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic name. 
The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria. 

Note 8, page 159, col. 1. 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow. 
" Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs 
are peaked in a very singular manner, and form 



projecting angles on the vast perpendicular faces 
of the rock which they present towards the chasm; 
where the surface renders it possible, the summits 
and ledges of the rocks are for the most part cover 
ed with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus 
and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, 
wherever there is a small interval between the wa- 
ter and the cliffs, it is covered by the rich nnd widely 
spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other 
forest trees, which in these situations have attained 
a remarkable size, and in various places extend 
their shadow far over the channel of the stream." 
" The rocks on each side the vale of 



N 



17 



Tempe are evidently the same ; what may be call- 
ed, I believe, a coarse bluish gray marble, with veins 
and portions of the rock, in which the marble is 
of finer quality." — Holland's Travels in Albania, 

Note 9, page 159, col. 3. 
Where Greece her councils held, her Pythian victors crowned. 
The Amphictyonic council was convened in 
spring and autumn at Delphi or Thermopylse, and 
presided at the Pythian games, which were cele- 
brated at Delphi every fifth year. 

Note 10, page 159, col. 2. 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead. 
" This spot (the field of Mantinea) on which so 
many brave men were laid to rest, is now covered 
with rosemary and laurels." — Pouqueville's Tra- 
vels in the Morea. 

Note 11, page 160, col. 2. 
Where the dark upas taints the gale around. 
For the accounts of the upas or poison-tree of 
Java, now generally believed to be fabulous, oi 
greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Darwin's Bo- 
tanic Garden. 

Note 12, page 160, col. 2. 
Its sculptured lions, richly wrought arcaaes. 
" The court most to be admired of the Alhambra 
is that called the court of the Lions ; it is orna- 
mented with sixty elegant pillars of an architec- 
ture which bears not the least resemblance to any 
of the known orders, and might be called the Ara- 
bian order. But its principal ornament, 

and that from which it took its name, is an ala- 
baster cup six feet in diameter, supported by twelve 
lions, which is said to have been made in imitation 
of the Brazen Sea of Solomon's temple." — Bovr- 
goanne's Travels in Spain. 

Note 13, page 160, col. 2. 
Bright as that Pleiad sphered in Mecca's fana. 
" Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poote» 
Arabiques, sont designcs par les ecnvains orieiy- 



170 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



taux sous le nom de Pleiade Arabique, et leurs 
ouvrages ctaient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou 
Mosque de la Mecque." — Sismondi. lAtterature 
du Midi. 

Note 14, page 160, col. 2. 

And thou, O last and noblest Constantine ! 

"The distress and fall of the last Constantine 

are more glorious than the long prosperity of the 

Byzantine Caesars." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, 

(^c. vol. xii. p. 226. 

Note 15, page 161, col. 1. 
The closing night of that imperial race ! 
See the description of the night previous to the 
taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II. — Gib- 
bon, vol. xii. p. 225. 

Note 16, page 161, col. 1. 
And the Seven Towers are scaled, and all is won and lost. 
" This building (the Castle of the Seven Tovp- 
ers) is mentioned as early as the sixth century of 
the Christian era, as a spot which contributed to 
the defence of Constantinople, and it was the prin- 
cipal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Pro- 
pontis, in the last periods of the empire." — Pouque- 
ville's Travels in the Morea. 

Note 17, page 161, col. 1. 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane. 
See the account from Herodotus of the superna- 
tural defence of Delphi. — Mitford's Greece, vol. i. 
V 396, 7 

Note 18, page 161, col. 2. 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose. 
" In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured 
Theseus as a demi-god, induced to it as well by 
other reasons, as because, when they were fighting 
the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the 
army thought they saw the apparition of Theseus 
completely armed, and bearing down before them 
upon the Barbarians." — Langhorne's Plutarch, 
Life of Theseus. 

Note 19, page 161, col. 2. 
Or they whose forms, to Alaric's awe-struck eye. 
" From ThermopylEe to Sparta, the leader of the 
Goths (Alaric) pursued his victorious march with- 
out encountering any mortal antagonist, but one 
of the advocates of expiring paganism has confi- 
lidently asserted, that the walls of Athens were 
puariled by the goddess Minerva, with her formi- 
daoie a3gis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, 
and that the conqueror was dismayed by the pre- 
sence of the hostile deities of Greece." — Gibbon's 
ffecHm and Fall, (f-c. vol. v. p. 183. 



Note20, pageiei, col. 2. 
Ye slept, oh heroes ! chiel ones of the eartn. 
" Even all the chief ones of the earth.'' — Isaiah 
14th chapter. 

Note 21, page 161, col. 2. 
Perished the conquering weapons of your WEir. 
" How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons 
of war perished !" — Samuel, 2d book, 1st chap. 

Note 22, page 162, col. 2. 

O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused awhile. 

For several interesting particulars relative to the 
Suliote warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland's 
Travels in Albania. 

Note 23, page 162, col. 9. 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood. 
"It is related as an authentic story, that a group 
of Suliote women assembled on one of the preci- 
pices adjoining the modern seraglio, and threw 
their infants into the chasm below, that they 
might not become the slaves of the enemy." — Hoi' 
land's Travels, d^c. 

Note 24, page 162, col. 2. 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty. 

The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of 
Mistra, are very inconsiderable, and only sufficient 
to mark the site of the ancient city. The scenery 
around them is described by travellers as very 
striking. 

Not§,25, page 163, col. 1. 
How died the brave, obedient to thy lawa 
The inscription composed by Simonides for the 
Spartan monument in the pass of Thermopylae 
has been thus translated — " Stranger, go tell the 
Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, 
and that we lie here." 

Note 26, page 163, col. 2. 
There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave. 
"In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those 
famous reeds which were known in the earliest 
ages, and all the rivers and marshes of Greece are 
replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and 
rivulets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hya- 
cinths, and narcissus orientalis." — Pouquevill^s 
Travels in the Morea. 

Note 27, page 163, col. 2. 
The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore. 
It was usual for suppliants to carry an oIiv« 
branch bound with wool 



^ 



MODERN GREECE. 



171 



Note 28, page 163, col. 2. 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallowed stilL 
The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still re- 
garded with veneration by the people of the Morea. 

^ Note 29, page 163, col. 2. 
Quenched is the torch of Ceres — all around. 
It was customary at Eleusis on the fifth day of 
the festival, for men and women to run about with 
torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches 
to Ceres, and to contend who should present the 
largest. This was done in memory of the journey 
of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which 
she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames 
of Etna. — Potter's Antiquities of Greece^ vol. i. 
p. 392. 

Note 30, page 164, col. 1. 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave. 

The Fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with 
the Hercynian fountain, are still to be seen 
amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the situa- 
tion of the cave of Trophonius in their vicinity 
can not be exactly ascertained. — See Holland's 
Travels. 

Note 31, page 164, col. 2. 
Fair Elis, o'er thy <.onsecrated vales. 
Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inha- 
bitants being considered as consecrated to the ser- 
vice of Jupiter. All armies marching tlirough it 
delivered up their weapons, and received them 
again when they had passed its boundary. 

Note 32, page 164, col. 2. 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray. 
"We are assured by Thucydides that Attica 
was the province of Greece in which population 
first became settled, and where the earliest pro- 
gress was made toward civilization." — Mitjbrd's 
Greece, vol. i. p. 35. 

Note 33, page 165, col. 1. 
Raised by the magic ol Morgana's wand. 

Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phe- 
nomenon, which is thought by the lower orders 
of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus de- 
scribed by father Angelucci, whose account is 
quoted by Swinburne. 

"On the 15th August, 1643, I was surprised, 
as I stood at my window, with a most wonderful 
spectacle : the sea that washes tlie Sicilian shore 
swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, 
'ike a chain of dark mori tains, while the waters 
near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and 
in an instant appeared like one clear polished mir- 
ror. On this glass was de[)icted, in chiaro scuro, 
a string of several thousands of pilasters all equal 



in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. 
In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman 
aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at 
the top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all 
perfectly alike; these again changed into towers, 
which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then 
windows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses and 
other trees." — Swinburne's Travels in the Ttco 
Sicilies 

Note 34, page 165, col. 2. 
Holy the amaranth strewed upon their grave. 
All sorts of purple and white flowers were sup 
posed by the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, 
and used in adorning tombs; as amaranth, with 
which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of 
Achilles. — Potter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. 
p. 232. 

Note 35, page 165, col. 2. 
Hark ! Pericles records their hoiioured names. 

Pericles, on his return to Athens after the re- 
duction of Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner 
the obsequies of his countrymen who fell in that 
war, and pronounced, himself, the funeral oration 
usual on such opcasions. This gained him great 
applause ; and when he came down from the ros- 
trum, the women paid their respects to him, and 
presented him with crowns and chaplets, like a 
champion just returned victorious from the lists. — 
Langhorne's Plutarch, Life of Pericles. 

Note 36, page 166, col. 1. 
Minerva's veil is rent — her Image gone. 
The peplus, which is supposed to have been 
suspended as an awning over the statue of Minerva, 
in the Parthenon, was a principal ornament of the 
Panathenaic festival; it was embroidered with 
various colours, representing the battle of the Gods 
and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. 
When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was 
brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a 
sail to the vessel, which on that day was con- 
ducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets 
of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acro- 
polis. The peplus was then carried to the Par- 
thenon, and consecrated to Minerva. — See Chan- 
dler's Travels, Stewart's Athens, <^c. 

Note 37, page 166, col. 1. 
Though with rich gold and massy sculpture graced, 
The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is 
still, according to Winckelmann, in high jire- 
servation. 

Note 38, page 167, col. 1. 
Tlierc in each wreck impoiisliablv glows. 
" In the most broken fragment the same gieat 
principle of life can be proved fo '■xLst, as in Iha 



172 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS, 



most perfect figure," is one of the observations of 
Mr. Haydon on the Elgin Marbles. 

Note 39, page 167, col. 2. 
Art unobtrusive there ennobles form. 
"Everything here breathes life, with a veracity, 
with an exquisite knowledge of art, but without 
the least ostentation or parade of it, which is con- 
cealed by consummate and masterly skill." — Cano- 
va's Letter to the Earl of Elgin. 

Note 40, page 167, col. 2. 
There e'en the steed with bold expression warm. 
Dr. West, after expressing his admiration of the 
horse's head in Lord Elgin's collection of Athenian 
sculpture, thus proceeds: "We feel the same 
when we view the young equestrian Athenians, 
and in observing them we are insensibly carried 
on with the impression, that they and their horses 
actually existed, as we see them, at the instant 
when they were converted into marble." — West's 
Second Letter to Lord Elgin. 

Note 41, page 167, col. 2. 
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine. 
Mr. Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very 
greatly improved within these last twenty years, 
and that his opinion is not singular, because works 
of such prime importance as the Elgin marbles 
could not remain in any country without a conse- 
quent improvement of the public taste, and the 
talents of the artist. — See the Evidence given in 
reply to interrogatories from the CoTnmittee on 
the Elgin Marbles. 



Note 42, page 168, col. 1. 

They once were gods and heroes — and beheld. 

The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered 
by Sir T. Lawrence, Mr. Westmacott, and othc 
distinguished artists, to be of a higher class thar 
the Appollo Belvidere; "because there*5s in them 
an union of very grand form with a more true and 
natural expression of the effect of action upon the 
human frame, than there is in the Apollo, or any 
of the other more celebrated statues." — See the 
Evidence, <^c. 

Note 43, page 168, col. 1. 
What British Angelo may rise to fame. 
" Let us suppose i young man at this time in 
London, endowed with powers such as enabled 
Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he did, by 
the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian ex- 
cellence in sculpture ; to what an eminence might 
not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity oi 
studying those sculptures in the aggregate, which 
adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens?"— 
West's Second Letter to Lord Elgin. 

Note 44, page 168, col. 1. 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray. 
In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckel- 
mann, Montesquieu, &c. with regard to the in- 
herent obstacles in the climate of England to the 
progress of genius and the arts. — See Hoare's 
Epochs of the Arts, page 84, 5. 



A PRIZE POEM. 



Come bright Improvement, on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ! 
Thy handmaid Arts shall every wild explore. 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore. — Campbell 

May ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts, 
That can perceive, not less than heretofore. 
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, 

the charm 

Of pious sentiment, diffused afar, 

And human charity, and social love. — Wordsworth. 



Amidst the peopled and the regal Isle, 
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile; 
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower, 
And send on every breeze a voice of power; 
Hath desolation reared herself a throne, 
And marked a pathless region for her own 1 
Yes ! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore, 
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore, 



Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent, 
When empires tottered, and the earth was rent ; 
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind 
Had stilled life's busy murmurs on the wind. 
And, flushed with power, in daring Pride's excess, 
Stamped on thy soil the curse of barrenness ; 
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven. 
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given ; 



DARTMOOR. 



173 



Wild Dartmoor ! thou that, 'midst thy mountains 

rude, 
Hast robed thyself with haughty soUtude, 
As u dark cloud on Summer's clear-blue sky, 
A mourner, circled with festivity ! 
For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea, 
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. 
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare, 
But man has left his lingering traces there? 
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains. 
Where noon, with attributes of midnight reigns, 
In gloom and silence, fearfully profound, 
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound ; 
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone 
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone. 
And nought of life be near ; his camel's tread 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
Some column, reared by long-forgotten hands, 
Just lifts its head- above the billowy sands — 
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the 

scene, 
And tells that Glory's footstep there hath been. 
There hath the spirit of the mighty passed. 
Not without record; though the desert-blast. 
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away 
The proud creations, reared to brave decay. 
But thou, lone region! whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame. 
Who shall unfold thine annals 1 Who shall tell 
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell. 
In those far ages, which have left no trace. 
No sunbeam on the pathway of their race 1 
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
Of kings and chiefs, who passed without their 

praise. 
Thou might'st have reared the valiant and the 

free. 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. — 

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled, (1) 
But hallowed by that instinct, which reveres 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
And such are these. Long centuries are flown. 
Bowed many a crest and shattered many a throne, 
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust. 
With that they hide — their shrined and treasured 

dust : 
Men traverse Alps and Oceans, to behold 
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her 

mould: 
But still these nameless chronicles of death, 
'Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, 
Stand iii primeval artlcssncss, and wear 
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share 
Th' eternity of nature, witii the forms 
Of the crowned hills beyond, the dwellings of the 

storms. 
Yet, what avails it, if each moss-grown heap 
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, 
17* 



Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath 
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's 

breath] 
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest, 
Thus rudely pillowed, on the desert's breast 1 
Doth the sword sleep beside them 1 Hath there been 
A sound of battle 'midst the silent scene. 
Where now the flocks repose"? Did the scythed car 
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of warl 
And rise these piles in memory of the slain, 
And the red combat of the mountain-plain'? 

It may be thus : the vestiges of strife. 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life. 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell(2) 
How by its stroke perchance the mighty fell. 
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride. 
The chieftain's power — they had no bard, an<' 

died.(3) 
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, 
The eternal stars of night have witnessed here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,(4) 
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone. 
Propped on its granite pillars, whence the rains, 
And pure bright dews, have laved the crimsor 

stains 
Left by dark rites of blood : for here, of yore. 
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore, 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low, 
Waved its wild wreath of sacred misletoe ; 
Here, at dead midnight, through the haunted shade. 
On Druid-harps tiie quivering moon-beam played, 
And spells were breathed, that filled the deepening 

gloom 
With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving through the night. 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height,(5) 
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'erthe desert's hundred hills and streams_ 
A savage grandeur ; while the starry skies 
Rung with the peal of mystic harmonies. 
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth 
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the 

North. 
But wilder sounds were there: th' imploring crv, 
That woke the forest's echo in repi}'. 
But not the heart's ! — Unmoved, the wizard train 
Stood round their human v ^tim, ai d in vain 
His prayer for mercy rose ; in vain his glance 
Looked up, appealing to the blue expanse. 
Where, in their calm, immortal beauty, shone 
Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter 

moan, 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he laj, 
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebbed awav , 
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly reu. 
And the pale moon gleamed paler on the dead. 
Have such things been, and here '! — where stulnesn 

dwells 
'Midst the rude barrows and the mo<>r!£.nd swells. 



Thu3 ui. disturbed 1 — Oh! long the gulf of time 
Hath clojed in darkness o'er those days of crime, 
And earth no vestige of their path retains, 
Save such as these, which strew her loneliest plains 
With records of man's conflicts and his doom. 
His spirit and his dust — the altar and the tomb. 

Rjt ages rolled away : and England stood, 
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood, 
And with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
And regal in collected majesty, 
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas ; 
And other lands, redeemed and joyous, drank 
The life blood of her heroes, as they sank 
On the red fields they won ; whose wild flowers 

wave 
Now, in luxuriant beauty, o'er their grave. 

'T was then the captives of Britannia's war,(6) 
Here for their lovely soutliern climes afar, 
In bondage pined : the spell-deluded throng, 
Dragged at Ambition's chariot-wheels so long. 
To die, — because a despot could not clasp 
A sceptre, fitted to his boundless grasp ! 

Yes ! they whose march had rocked the ancient 

thrones 
And temples of the world ; the deepening tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet, from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes, 
Were prisoners here. — And there were some whose 

dreams 
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain- 
streams, 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain, 
And festal melody of Loire or Seine, 
And of those mothers, who had watched and wept, 
When on the field the unsheltered conscript slept, 
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were 

there ; 
Of sterner spirits, hardened by despair ; 
Who in their dark imaginings, again 
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, 
Drank in the victim's shriek, as music's breath, 
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 
And there was mirth too!— strange and savage 

mirth. 
More fearful far than all the woes of earth ! 
Tiie laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring 
From minds for which there is no sacred thing, 
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee, — 
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! 

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn, 
ll, from wild revelry, or haughty scorn. 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it — wo. 

Yet was this all 1 — amidst the dungeon-gloom, 
The void, the stillness, of the captive's doom. 
Were there no deeper thoughts 1 — And that dark 

power, 
To whom guilt owes one late, but dreadful hour, 



The mighty debt through years of crime delayed, 
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid ; 
Came he not thither, in his burning force, 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls — Remorsel 

Yes ! as the night calls forth from sea and skv 
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, 
Lost, when the swift, triumphant wheels of day 
In light and sound, are hurrying on their way : 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart. 
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might star* 
Called up by solitude, each nerve to thrill. 
With accents heard not, save when all is still I 

The voice, inaudible, when Havoc's train 
Crushed the red vintage of devoted Spain ; 
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, 
And the broad hght of conflagration sprung 
From the South's marble cities ; — hushed, 'midst 

cries 
That told the Heavens of mortal agonies; 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last, 
In the concentred thunders of the past ! 

And there, perchance, some long-bewildered 

mind. 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined 
Of village-duties, in the alpine glen, 
Where nature cast its lot, 'midst peasant-men ; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent 
The earthquake-power of each wild element, 
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high. 
One impulse more of desperate energy ; 
Might, when the billow's awful rush was o'er, 
Which tossed its wreck upon the storm-beat 

shore. 
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried, 
Searched by remorse, by anguish purified. 
Have fixed at length its troubled hopes and fears. 
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears, 
And in that hour of triumph or despair, 
Whose secrets all must learn — but none declare, 
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense, 
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence. 
Have turned to him, whose bow is in the cloud, 
Around life's limits gathering, as a shroud ; — 
The fearful myst^-ries of the heart who knows, 
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose ! 

Who visited that death-bed 1— Who can tell 
Its brief, sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, 
And learn immortal lessons'! — Who beheld 
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repelled— 
The agony of prayer — the bursting tears — 
The dark remembrances of guilty years, 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might? — 
He, through the storm who looked, and there wag 

light ! 
That scene is closed ! — that wild, tumultuoua 

breast. 
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest I 
He too is fallen, the master-power of strife, 
Who woke those passions to delirious life ; 



DARTMOOR. 



175 



Aiul tlays, prepared a brighter course to run, 
Uotckl tlieir buoyant pinions to the sun ! 

IX is a tjlorious liour when Spring goes fortli, 
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy North, 
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath. 
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death ; 
While the glad voices of a thousand streams. 
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! 

But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the mind, 
The warm and living spirit of mankind, 
Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart. 
To life and hope from desolation start ! 
She, with a look, dissolves the captive's chain, 
Peopling with beauty widowed homes again ; 
Around the mother, in her closing years. 
Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears 
Of the dim past, but winning purer light. 
To make the present more serenely bright. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to 
clime, 
In silence gliding with the stream of time. 
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze 
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas : 
And, as heaven's breath called forth, with genial 

power, 
From the dry wand, the almond's living flower; 
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move 
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love ; 
While round its pathway nature softly glows. 
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. 

Yes ! let the waste lift up the exulting voice ! 
Let the far-echoing solitudes rejoice ! 
And thou, lone moor 1 where no blithe reaper's song 
E'er lightly sped the summer-hours along. 
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain source, 
Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! 
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark 
The scene of barbarous rites, in ages dark. 
And of some nameless combat ; Hope's bright eye 
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy 1 
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
Yet shall thy cottage-smoke, at dewy morn. 
Rise, in blue wreaths, above the flowering thorn. 
And, 'midst thy hamlet-shades, the embosomed spire 
Catch I'rom deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire. 

Thee too that iiour shall bless, the balmy close 
Of labour's day, the herald of repose. 
Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth 
Basks in the blaze of each free village-hearth ; 
While peasant-songs ara on tiie joyous gales, 
And merry Eiigland's voice floats up from all her 

vales. 
Yet are there sweeter sounds ; and thou shalt hear 
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear. 
Oh ! if there still be melody on earth. 
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth. 
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trod. 
And the air trembled with the breath of God ; 



It lives in those soft accents, to the sky(7) 

Borne from the lips of stainless infancy. 

When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 

sprung. 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue. 

And such shall be thy music when the cells. 
Where guilt, the child of hopeless misery, dwells 
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, 
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) 
Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence, 
Ere the cold blight hath reached its innocence, 
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled. 
Which vice but breathes on, and its hues are dead, 
Shall at the call press forward, to be made 
A glorious oflering, meet for him, who said, 
" Mercy not sacrifice !" and when, of old. 
Clouds of rich incense from his altars rolled. 
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare 
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there! 

When some crowned conqueror, o'er a trample(} 
world, 
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurled, 
And, like those visitations which deform 
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm 
His pathway to Dominion's lonely sphere, 
Silence behind, — before him, flight and fear; 
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels 
Till each far isle the mighty impulse feels. 
And earth is moulded but by one proud will, 
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still; 
Shall the free soul of softg bow down to pay 
The earthquake homage on its baleful way 1 
Shall the glad harp send up exalting strains, 
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains'? 
And shall no harmony of softer close, 
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows, 
And, mingling with the music of its wave 
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave 1 

Oh ! there are loftier themes, for him, whose eyea 
Have searched the depths of life's realities, 
Than the red battle, or the trophied car, 
Wheehng the monarch-victor fast and far; 
There are more noble strains from those which 

swell 
The triumphs, Ruins may suffice to tell ! 

Ye Prophet-bards, who sat in elder days 
Beneath the palms of Judah! Ye, whose lays 
With torrent rapture, from their source on high, 
Burst in the strength of immortality ! 
Oh ! not alone, those haunted groves among. 
Of conquering hosts, of empires crushed, ye sung^ 
But of that Spirit, destined to explore 
With the bright day-sprii>g every distant shoi^, 
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed. 
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleea , 
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon's gloom, 
And pour eternal starlight o'er the lotnb ! 

And blessed and hallowed be its haunts! for there 
Hath man's high soul been rescuetl Irom despair v — 



176 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



There hath the immortal spark for Heaven been 

nursed, — 
There from the rock the springs of life have burst, 
Gluenchless and pure ! and holy thoughts, that rise, 
Warm from the source of human sympathies, — • 
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced, 
Shall find their temple in the silent w^aste. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 173, col. 1. 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled. 
In some parts of Dartmoor the surface is thickly 
strewed with stones, which, in many instances, ap- 
pear to have been collected into piles, on the tops 
of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the na- 
tural Tors. The Stone-barrows of Dartmoor re- 
semble the Cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian 
hills, and those in Cornwall. — See Cooke's Topo- 
graphical Survey of Devonshire. 

Note 2, page 173, col. 2. 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to telL 
Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found 
upon Dartmoor. 

Note 3, page 173, col. 2. 
The chieftain's power— they had no bard, and died. 
Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
Multi : Sed omnes illachrymabiles 



Urgentur, ignotique longa 
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro. — Horaee, 
'■ They had no Poet, and they died." 

Pope's Translation. 

Note 4, page 173, col. 2. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone. 
On the east of Dartmoor, are some Druidical re- 
mains, one of which is a Cromlech, whose three 
rough pillars of granite support a ponderous table- 
stone, and form a kind of large, irregular tripod. 

Note 5, page 173, col. 2. 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height. 
In some of the Druid festivals, fires were light- 
ed on all the cairns and eminences around, by 
priests, carrying sacred torches. All the house- 
hold fires were previously extinguished, and those 
who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were 
allowed to relight them with a flaming brand, kin- 
dled at the consecrated cairn-fire. 

Note 6, page 174, col. 1. 
'T was then the captives of Britannia's war. 
The French prisoners, taken in the wars with 
Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor. 

Note 7, page 175, col. 2. 
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky. 
In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great 
national school-house on Dartmoor, where it was 
proposed to educate the children of convicts. 



ON THE BANKS OF THE CARRON. 



A PRIZE POEM. 



I'he Scottish historians describe their hero, 
alter the battle of Falkirk, by his military talents 
and presence of mind, preserving the troops under 
nis own command, and retreating leisurely and in 
good order, along the banks of the little river 
Carron, which protected him from the enemy. 
They add, that Robert Bruce* appeared on the 
opposite side of the river, and soon distinguishing 
the majestic figure of Wallace, he called out to 
him, and desired a conference. They represent 
the Scottish hero as seizing this opportunity to 
awalien the feelings of patriotism in the youthful 
mind of Bruce ; as appeahng to him in behalf of 



• Not Robert Bruce, afterwards king of Scotland, but his 



his country, and describir.g her oppressed state, 
as the consequence of being deserted by those 
whom nature and fortune had pointed out, as best 
fitted by birth and character to maintain the na- 
tional independence. The enthusiasm of the 
speaker is said to have made a deep impression on 
Bruce, who from that time repented of his en- 
gagements with Edward, and secretly determined 
to seize the first opportunity of aiding the cause 
of his native country. 



The morn rose bright on scenes renowced. 
Wild Caledonia's classic ground, 
Where the bold sons of other days 
Won their high fame in Ossian's lr,,ys, 



THE MEETING OF WALLACE AND BRUCE. 



17T 



And fell — but not till Carron's tide 

Witli Ri)inan blood was darkly dyed. 

— The morn rose bright, and heard the cry 

Sent by exulting hosts on high, 

And saw the white-cross banner float 

(While rang each clansman's gathering note) 

O'er the dark plumes and serried spears 

Of Scotland's daring mountaineers, 

As all elate with hope, they stood 

To buy their freedom with their blood. 

The sunset shone, to guide the flying, 
And beam a farewell to the dying! 
The summer-moon on Falkirk's field, 
Streams upon eyes in slumber sealed; 
Deep slumber, not to pass away. 
When breaks another morning's ray, 
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice 
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: 
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath 
May chase the still, cold, sleep of Death 1 
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stained plaid, 
Low are her mountain-warriors laid ; 
They fell, on that proud soil, whose mould 
Was blent with heroes' dust of old. 
And guarded by the free and brave. 
Yielded the Roman but a grave ! 
Nobly they fell — yet with them died 
The warrior's hope, the leader's pride. 
Vainly they fell — that martyr host — 
All, save the land's high soul, is lost. 
Blest are the slain ! they calmly sleep, 
Nor see their bleeding country weep ; 
The shouts, of England's triumph telhng. 
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling ; 
And those, surviving to bequeath 
Their sons the choice of chains or death, 
May give the slumberer's lowly bier, 
An envying glance, — but not a tear. 
But thou, the fearless and the free, 
Devoted Knight of EUerslie ! 
No vassal-spirit, formed to bow 
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow, 
No shade of fear, or weak despair. 
Blends with indignant sorrow there. 
The ray which streams on yon red field, 
O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, 
Glitters not there alone, to shed 
Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead. 
But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave, 
Flows near ti\at death-bed of the brave, 
Illuming all tlie midnight scene, 
Sleeps biigiitly on thy lofty mien. 

But oi.JKT beams, O Patriot! shine 
In eacli couunanding glance of thine. 
And other light hath filled tliine eye. 
With inspiration's majesty. 
Cauj^ht from the iuimortal flame divine 
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! 



Thy voice a Prophet's tone hath won, 
The grandeur Freedom lends her son; 
Thy bearing, a resistless power, 
The ruling genius of the hour; 
And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride. 
Whom Carron's waves from thee dividcj 
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek 
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek. 
Feels his reluctant mind controlled 
By thine, of more heroic mould ; 
Though, struggling all in vain to war 
With that high mind's ascendant star, 
He, with a conqueror's scornful eye, 
Would mock the name of Liberty. 

— Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice"? 
"Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice! 
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, 
The harvest of thy battle-plain. 
And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spoi 
Eternity shall cancel not? 
Rejoice ! — with sounds of wild lament. 
O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent, 
With dying moan and dirge's wail, 
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail ! 
Rejoice ! — while yet exulting cries 
From England's conquering host arise 
And strains of choral triumph tell, 
Her royal Slave hath fought too well. 
Oh ! dark the clouds of wo that rest 
Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain-crest ; 
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn. 
O'er martyred chiefs her daughters mourn; 
And not a breeze, but wafts the sound 
Of wailing through the land around. 
Yet deem not thou, till life depart. 
High hope shall leave the patriot's heart, 
Or courage, to the storm inured, 
Or stern resolve, by woes matured, 
Oppose, to Fate's severest hour. 
Less than unconquerable power. 
No! though the orbs of heaven expire, 
Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire! 
And wo to him whose might would dare 
The energies of thy despair I 
No! — when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast 
O'er thy land's chartered mountain-blast, 
Then in my yielding soul shall die 
The glorious faith of Liberty !" 

"Wild hopes! o'er dreamer's mind that rise,' 
With haughty laugh, the Conqueror cries. 
(Yet his dark check is flusiied with shame, 
And his eye filled with troubled flame;) 
"Vain, brief illusions! doomed to fly 
England's red path of victory ! 
Is not her sword unmatched in might"? 
Her course, a torrent in the fight? 
The terror of her name gone lorth 
Wide o'er the regions of the North 1 



Far hence, 'midst other heaths and snows, 
Must Freedom's footstep now repose. 
And thou, in lofty dreams elate, 
Enthusiast ! strive no more with Fate ! 
'T is vain — the land is lost and won — 
Sheathed be the sword, its task is done. 
Where are the Chiefs who stood with thee, 
First in the battles of the free 1 
The firm in heart; in spirit high] 
— They sought yon fatal field to die. 
Each step of Edward's conquering host 
Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast." 

"Vassal of England! yes, a grave, 
Where sleep the faithful and the brave; 
And who the glory would resign 
Of death Uke theirs, for life like thine 1 
They slumber — and the stranger's tread 
May spurn thy country's noble dead; 
Yet, on the land they loved so well, 
Still shall their burning spirit dwell. 
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel's theme, 
Their image rise on warrior's dream, 
Their names be inspiration's breath. 
Kindling high hope, and scorn of death. 
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, 
The flame that shall avenge their doom! 
This is no land for chains — away! 
O'er softer climes let tyrants sway! 
Think'st thou the mountain and the storm 
Their hardy sons for bondage form? 
Doth our stern wintry blast instil 
Submission to a Despot's wilH 
— No! we were cast in other mould 
Than theirs, by lawless power controlled. 
The nurture of our bitter sky 
Calls forth resisting energy. 
And the wild fastnesses are ours. 
The rocks with their eternal tovifers! 
The soul to struggle and to dare, 
Is mingled with our. northern air. 
And dust beneath our soil is lying. 
Of those who died for fame undying. 
Tread'st thou that soil, and can it be 
No loftier thought is roused in thee 
Doth no high feeling proudly start 
From slumber in thine inmost heart? 
No secret voice thy bosom thrill. 
For thine own Scotland pleading still? 
Oh! wake thee yet! indignant claim 
A nobler fate, a purer fame, 
And cast to earth thy fetters riven, 
And take thine offered crown from Heaven! 
Wake ! in that high majestic lot. 
May the dark past be all forgot. 
And Scotland shall forgive the field, 
Where with her blood thy shame was sealed. 
E en 1, — though on that fatal plain 
Lies mv heart's brother with the slain, 



Though, reft of his heroic worth, 

My spirit dwells alone on earth. 

And when all other grief Is past. 

Must this be cherished to the last ; — 

Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, 

With faith unspotted as his own. 

Nor in thy noon of fame recall. 

Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall." 

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain 
Are Fredom's warning accents vain? 
No, royal Bruce! within thy breast 
Wakes each high thought, too long suppressed. 
And thy heart's noblest feelings live. 
Blent in that suppHant word — "Forgive! 
Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done I 
Wallace ! thy fairest palm is won ; 
And kindling at my country's shrine, 
My soul hath caught a spark of thine. 
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour 
Of triumph and exulting power. 
Deem not the light of peace could find 
A home within my troubled mind. 
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen. 
Dark, silent, secret, there have been, 
Known but to Him, whose glance can trace 
Thought to its deepest dwelhng-place. 
— 'T is past, and on my native shore 
I tread, a rebel son no more. 
Too blest, if yet my lot may be, 
In glory's path to follow thee; 
If tears, by late repentance poured. 
May lave the blood-stains from my sword- ' 

— Far other tears, O Wallace ! rise 
From thy heart's fountain to thine eyes. 
Bright, holy, and unchecked they spring, 
While thy voice falters, " Hail ! my King 
Be every wrong, by memory traced. 
In this full tide of joy efiaced ! 
Hail! and rejoice! thy race shall claim 
An heritage of deathless fame. 
And Scotland shall arise at length, 
Majestic in triumphant strength, 
An eagle of the rock, than won 
A way, through tempests, to the sun. 
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand. 
The prophet-spirit of thy land ! 
By torrrent wave, in desert blast, 
Those visions o'er my thoughts have passed 
Where mountain-vapours darkly roll, 
That spirit hath possessed my soul. 
And shadowy forms have met mine eye. 
The beings of futurity; 
And a deep voice of years to be, 
Hath told that Scotland shall be free. 

"He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! 
From thee the Chief, the Avenger springs! 
Far o'er the land he comes to save, 
His banners in their gloiy wave, 



Anil Alhyn"s thousand harps awake 

On hill and heath, by stream and lake, 

To swell the strains that far around 

Bid the proud name of Bruce resound. 

And I — but wherefore now recall 

The whispered omens of my fall? 

They come not in mysterious gloom, 

— There is no bondage in the tomb ! 

O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns. 

And earth alone for man hath chains ! 

What though I perish ere the hour 

When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power, 

If shed for her, my blood shall stain 

The field or scaffold not in vain. 

[ts voice, to efforts more sublime, 

Shall rouse the spirit of her clime, 

And in the noontide of her lot, 

My country shall forget me not 1" 



Art thou forgot 1 and hath thy worth 
Without its glory passed from Earth? 
— Rest with the brave, whose names belong 
To the high sanctity of song, 
Chartered our reverence to control. 
And traced in sunbeams on the soul. 
Thine, Wallace ! while the heart hath still 
One pulse a generous thought can thrill. 
While Youth's warm tears are yet the meed 
Of martyr's death, or hero's deed, 
Shall brightly live, from age to age. 
Thy country's proudest heritage. 



'A'Jidst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, 
Thy deeds her mountain-winds are telling, 
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave, 
Thy step hath hallowed rock and cave; 
And cold the wanderer's heart must be. 
That holds no converse there with thee. 

Yet, Scotland ! to thy champion's shade, 
Still are thy grateful rites delayed. 
From lands of old renown, o'erspread 
With proud memorials of the dead. 
The trophied urn, the breathing bust, 
The pillar, guarding noble dust. 
The shrine, where art and genius high 
Have laboured for Eternity! — 
The stranger comes, — his eye explores 
The wilds of thy majestic shores. 
Yet vainly seeks one native stone. 
Raised to the hero all thine own. 

Land of bright deeds and minstrel loie. 
Withhold the guerdon now no more! 
On some bold height of awful form. 
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm. 
Sublimely mingling with the skies, 
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise ! 
Not to record the name that thrills 
Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills; 
Not to assert with needless claim, 
The bright ^or ever of its flinie ; 
But, in the ages yet untold. 
When ours shall be the days of old. 
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride 
In him, for thee who lived and died. 
I 1819. 



Thou slrivest nobly. 

When hearts of sterner stud perhaps had sunk: 

And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed. 

Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears. 

Fame I look not for, 

But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye, 
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pricle. 
The dignity and honour of a man. 
Thus .stationed as I am, I will do all 
Tliat man may do. 

Miss Baillie's Constantine PalcBologus. 



I. 

The fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines. 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ; 
— Shout, for the City of the Constantines, 
The rising City of the billow-side, 
The City of the Cross! — great Ocean's bride. 
Crowned from her birth she sprung! — Long 

ages passed. 
And still she looked in glory o'er the tide, 



Which at her feet Barbanc riches cast, 
Poured by ihe burning East, all joyou&ly and tast. 

II. 

Long ages passed ! — they lefl her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly foot-steps. Gems and gold 
Broidcred her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frowned in tiieir strength ; yet there were si^ua 
which told 






180 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



The days were full. The pure high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmured if a rose-leaf's fold 
Disturbed her dreams ; and called her slaves to 
keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her 
o'er the deep. 

III. 

But there are sounds that from the regal dwell- 
ing 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude; 
'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, 
Breaks on the soft repose by Luxury wooed ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows. 
And darker hues have stained the marble, 

strewed 
With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose. 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march 
of foes. 

IV. 

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, 
Remote, yet solemn as the' night-storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant-pines ! Across the seas 
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crowned Eurotas ; when, of old, 
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave which would not be con- 
trolled. 
But, past the Persian's chain, in boundless freedom 
rolled. 



And it is thus again !— Swift oars are dashing 

The parted waters, and a light is cast 

On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden 

flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening 

fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep, 
Wakening strange echoes as the shores are past 
Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors 
sleep, 
O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepul- 
chral heap. 

VI. 

War from the West ! — the snows on Thracian 

hills 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'er 

the lands 
Which Hajmus girds, the chainless mountain 

rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East ' — 'midst Araby's lone sands, 



More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior-hands 
Against the Golden City of the sea :(1) 
— Oh 1 for a soul to fire thy dust Thermopylae! 

VII. 
Hear yet again, ye mighty ! — Where are they, 
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown- 
ed. 
Leaped up in proudly beautiful array. 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 
Of Persia's clarion 1 — Far and joyous round. 
From the pine-forests, aivd the mountain-snows 
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 
Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they 
rose ! 
— Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's re- 



pose I 



VIII. 



They slumber with their swords ! — The olive 

shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale ! 
In vain the spirit of the past pervades 
The soft winds breathing through each Gre*!ian 

vale, 
— Yet must thou wake, though all unarmed and 

pale. 
Devoted City ! — Lo ! the Moslem's spear. 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear ! 
— Awake and summon those, who yet, perchance, 

may hear ! 

IX. 

Be hushed, thou faint and feeble voice of weep- 
ing! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high. 
And call on chiefs whose nobfe sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sign 
To Syrian gales ! — The sons of each brave line. 
From their baronial halls shall hen r your cry, 
And seize the arms which flashed round Salem's 
shrine. 
And wield for you the swords once waved for Pa- 
lestine ! 

X. 

All still, all voiceless ; — and the billows roai 
Alone replies ! — Alike their soul is gone, 
Who shared the funeral feast on CEta's shore, 
And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Swelled the crusader's hymn ! — Then gird thou 

on 
Thine armour, Eastern Clueen ! and meet the 

hour, 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is 

done, 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



.91 



With a strong heart ; so may thy helmet tower 
tJnshivered through the storm, for generous hope 
is power ! 

XI. 

But linger not, — array thy men of might ! 
The shores, the seas are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming 

bright, 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near. 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear. 
Which the deep grave alone is chartered not to hear. 

XII. 

Away! bring wme, bring odours to the shade, (2) 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high ! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade! 
Snatch every brief delight, — since we must die ! 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by, 
For feast in vine-wreathed bower, or pillared 

hall; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call, 
And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will 

fall. 

XIII. 

The night, the glorious oriental night, 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven. 
With its clear stars ! The red artillery's light. 
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven. 
To the still firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower 
Starts wildly forth ; and now the air is riven 
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds 

lower. 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallowed 

hour. 

XIV. 

bounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth. 
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To Faith and Courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas, 
From the Seven Towers,(3) their banner waves 

its sign, 
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze, 
Which plays amidst its folds. "That voice was 

thine ; 
Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 

XV. 

Was Rome thy parent 1 Didst thou catch from 

her 
The fiire that lives in thine undaunted eye 1 
18 



— That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die' 
Heir of the Coesars ! did that lineage high, 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath passed 
With its long march of sceptred imagery ,(4) 
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast? 
— Thou ! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last' 

XVI 

Vain dreams ! upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the living Fountain, whence each 

thought 
Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories 

fraught. 
And far within, a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, 
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought 
(Though through its veil, seen darklv from the 

dust,) 
In realms where Time no more hath power upor. 
the just. 

XVII. 

Those were proud days, when on the battle plain. 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst th' array 
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain. 
The Roman cast his glittering'mail away,(5) 
And, while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands, at his voice who start- 
ed. 
Called on the unseen, terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then, fear- 
less-hearted. 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed. 

XVIII. 

But then, around him as the javehns rushed. 
From earth to heaven swelled up the loud acclaim ; 
And, ere his heart's last free libation gushed. 
With a bright smile the warrior caught his name, 
Far-floating on the winds ! And Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life, in fiery feeling! Valour's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed. 
Was to be Rome's high star ! — He died — and had 
his meed. 

XIX. 

But praise — and dearer, holier praise, be theirs, 
Who, in the stillness and the solitude 
Of hearts pressed earthwards by a weight of cares, 
Uncheered by Fame's proud hope,th' ethereai ftt)d 
Of restless energies, and only viewed 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 
Is on the soul's dark places ; have subdued 
And vowed themselves, with strength HU then 
unknown. 
To some high martyr-task, in secret ani alone. 




XX. 

Theirs be the bright and sacred names enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charmed mankind 
With its rich pomp of festival and song, 
Garland and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; 
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice; for i/ience arise 
A.1I that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 

XXI. 
Weil might thy name, brave Constantine ! awake 
Such thought, such feeling ! — But the scene again 
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists : the camp, 

the plain, 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, 
With its bright cross fixed high in crowning grace; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, 
And, circling all with arms, that turbaned race. 
The sun, the desert, stamped in each dark, haugh- 
ty face, 

XXII. 
Shout, ye seven hills ! Lo ! Christian pennons 

streaming 
Red o'er the waters !(6) Hail, deliverers, hail, 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, 
Is Hope's own smile 1 They crowd the swell- 
ing sail. 
On, with the foam, the sun-beam, and the gale, 
Borne, as a victor's car ! The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil 
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before ! 
—And oh ! the glorious burst of that bright sea 
and shore ! 

XXIII. 

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's 

coast. 
All thronged ! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch girt with his Barbaric host. 
Points o'er the beach his flashing scymetar ! 
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement, 
Decks, with theii serried guns, arrayed to bar 
The promised aid ; but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks ! — the Moslem line is rent ! 

XXIV. 
On, on through rushing flame, and arrowy show- 
er. 
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way, 
And, with the shadows of the vesper-hour. 
Furled their white sails, and anchored in the bay. 
Then were the streets with song and torch- fire 
gay, 



Then the Greek wines flowed mantling in the 

light 
Of festal halls ; — and there was joy ! — the ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright. 
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight ! 

XXV. 

For, vain that feeble succour ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and the 

sweep 
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, 
Comes powerful as when Heaven unbinds the 

deep! 
— Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep. 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and 

sleep 
Flies far ; and in their mien, the walls who tread, 
Things, by the brave untold, may fearfully be read \ 

XXVI. 

It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguered wall ! 
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions rolled, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ! 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall. 
The giant-shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the grave's ; a low, mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and from the tented plain 
A voice of omens rose, with each wild martial strain, 

XXVII. 

For they might catch the Arab charger's neigh- 
ing, 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song-, 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying, 
The watch-word muttered in some eastern 

tongue. 
Then flashed the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness — not repose ; 
And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and 

strong ; 
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Who see their numbered hours fast pressing to the 
close. 

XXVIII. 
But strength is from the mightiest! There ia 

one 
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen. 
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning 

sun. 
And tells in silence, how the night hath been, 
In kingly halls, a vigil : yet serene, 
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye, 
And there is that in his collected mien. 
To which the hearts of noble men reply, 
With fires, partaking not this frame's, mortality .' 



XXIX. 

Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate, 
To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be. 
Still ibilowing fast; as wlien the wind hath 

blown 
O'er Indian groves,(7) a wanderer wild and 

free, 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree ! 

XXX. 

And it is thus with thee ! thy lot is cast 
On evil days, thou Cffisar! yet the few 
That set their generous bosoms to the blast 
Which rocks thy throne — the fearless and the 

true, 
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 
The free devotion of the years gone by, 
When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 
Enduring strength! — states vanish — ages fly — 
Jut leave one task unchanged — to suffer and to 
die! 

XXXI. 

These are our nature's heritage. But thou, 
The crowned with empire! thou wert called to 

share 
A cup more bitter. On thy fevered brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 
Which long had passed away ; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that 

came 
As a strong billow in their weight of care; 
And, with all this, to smile ! for earth-born 

frame, 
f hese are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown 
to fame ! 

XXXII. 
Her glance is on the triumph, on the field. 
On the red scaffold ; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steeled 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might. 
Yet are proud nature's ! But her meteor light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not 

where, 
In silence, and in secret, and in night. 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair, 
And rise more strong than death from its unwit- 
nessed prayer. 

XXXIII. 

Men have been firm in battle: they have stood, 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, 



And won the birthright of their hearths with 

blood. 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes, 
That so their children, undefilcd with chains. 
Might worship there in peace. But they that 

stand 

When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Linked but to perish with a ruined land. 
Where Freedom dies with them — call these a 
martyr-band! 

XXXIV. 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, per- 
chance. 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must 

die. 
Recked not which champion ; but prepared the 

strain, 
And bound the bloody wreath of victory, 
To greet the conqueror ; while, with calm dis- 
dain. 
The vanquished proudly met the doom he met in 
vain. 

XXXV. 

The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is fraught 
With this of Liberty, that now the need 
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought. 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must 

bleed. 
With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are 

freed 
From tasks like these by Misery ; one alone 
Is left the brave, and rest sliall be thy meed. 
Prince, watcher, wearied one ! when thou hast 

shown 
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave 

and throne! 

XXXVI. 

The signs are full. They are not in the sKy, 
Nor in the many voices of the air, 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high, 
Toss their wild spears ; no meteor-banners glaro, 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair. 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
In the thin ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a peop't's mien. 
And in the ruined heaps where walls and towpn 
have been ! 

XXXVII. 

It is a night of beauty; sucn a iiigni 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade 



IS4 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, 
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and 

glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest-haunts : a night, to rove alone, 
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are 

swayed. 
And the reeds whisper, with a dreamy tone 
Of melody, that seems to breathe from worlds un- 
known. 

XXXVIII. 

A night, to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards : a night, to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of 

old; 
A night, for mourners, o'er the hallowed mould, 
To strew sweet flowers ; for revellers to fill 
And wreath the cup ; for sorrows to be told, 
Which love hath cherished long ; — vain 

thoughts! be still! 
—It is a night of fate, stamped vdth Almighty 
Will! 

XXXIX. 

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rend- 
ing 

The ancient summits in its dread career ! 

And with vast billows wrathfully contending. 

And with dark clouds o'ershadowing every 
sphere ! 

— But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with 
fear. 

Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, 

Alike in His omnipotence is near. 

When the soft winds o'er spring's green path- 
way blow, 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch- 
mountain's brow. 

XL. 

The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hushed Bosphorus, whose ocean-stream 
Sleeps, with its paler stars : the snowy crown 
Of far 01ympua,(8) in the moonlight-gleam 
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Thronged xl with gods, and bent the adoring 
knee! 
-But that IS past — and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone those haunts; but earth, air, sea. 
And time, which presses on, to finish his decree. 

XLI. 

Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones 
And temples of a visionary might, 
Brooding in clouds above your forest-zones, 
And mantling thence the realms beneath with 
night: 



Ye have looked down un battles! Fear and 

Flight, 
And armed Revenge, all hurrying past below ! 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared, than e'er, with tranqui! 

brow. 
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and 

snow! 

XLII. 

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 

And Asia's hills re-echoed to a cry 

Of savage mirth! — Wild horn, and war-steeds' 

tramp. 
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry, 
The clash of desert-spears ! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on. 
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and 

high. 
And countless, as the flames, in ages gone, 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy 
Lebanon ! 

XLIIl. 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
Which wraps those eastern thousands'? Yes, 

perchance 
Along yon moonlight shore and dark-blue deep 
Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed 
Rich odours o'er the faithful; but the lance, 
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberera 



Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the 
dead. 

XLIV. 

May this be sleep, this hush 1 — A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst that dusky race! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny, 
E'en now is gazing on the skies, to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, 
Fate's mystic pathway; they the while, serene, 
Walk in their beauty; but Mohammed's face, 
Kindles beneath their aspect,(9) and his mien, 
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen 

XLV. 

Oh ! wild presumption of a conqueror's drea» 
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood ! — But with the restless min* 
It hath been ever thus ! and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assigned 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep, 

As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon rousl 

1 sleep. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



185 



XLVI. 
But ye! that beamed on Fate's tremendous 

night, 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon, 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won; 
And ye, that calmly viewed the slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet- 
blast 
Rung through the Capitol; bright spheres ! roll on! 
Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man 
cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with 
the past. 

XLVU. 

For it hath mighty lessons ! from the tomb, 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the wrecked cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair. 
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the mid- 
night air, 
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, 
And thrills the soul ; — yet bids us not despair. 
But make one rock our shelter and our stay. 
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay ! 

XL VIII. 

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam 
O'er the hushed waters tremulously fall. 
Poured from the Csesars' palace : now the beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall. 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft, graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 

XLIX. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound ! 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, 
Waf ing an atmosphere of music round, 
Tellr the hushed seaman, gliding past the shore. 
How monarchs revel there ! — Its feasts are o'er — 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade 7 
— I see 3 train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade. 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone 
were made! 



In silence, and in arms! Wit/'i helm — with 

sword — 
These are no marriage-garments ! — Yet e'en 

now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, 
Thy Georgian bride should wreath her lovely 

brow 
O 18* 



With an imperial diadem !(I0)— but thou, 
O fated prince! art called, and these with thee, 
To darker scenes ; and thou hast learned to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree. 
And count it joy enough to perish — being free! 

LI. 

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, 
As men that in some time of fear and wo. 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead. 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow, 
The. warriors pass: their measured steps are 

slow. 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls. 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go, 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walla, 
Sad seems the light itself, which on their armour 
falls! 

LII. 

And they have reached a gorgeous chamber, 

bright 
With all we dream of splendour ; yet a gloom 
Seems gathered o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb ! 
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume 
A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 
But it is empty ! — Hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there already? — Where is He, the One, 
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone"? 

LIIl. 

Oh ! there are times whose pressure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions ! — when the storm beats 

loud. 
When the strong towers are tottering to their 

base. 
And the streets rock, — who mingle in the crowd 1 
— Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that throng ! — Yes, life hath many an 

hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chastening 

bowed. 
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower, 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 

power ! 

LIV. 

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on hign, 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak 
In the deep human heart more gloriously, 
Than in the bursting thunder ! — Thence the 

weak. 
They that seemed formed, as flower-stems, Uut 

to break 
With the first wind, have risen to deeds, whos* 

name 
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheok. 



A«d \M\\ the ji«ls«>5-=vi!ij, atj^Bgth no panga 

U*lh loiVkwl ft^>^« wwnaw'a ep «pw\ the swwd 
Mtt) flame ! 

i\wl tWsfeof awh hoi\»r95— That thww>eia\<4^, 
Awtlitaloax^ eotnea, MWoiwvnM, Behold him stand. 
With a eah« Imtow, whew woea hav"e net de- 

str^j'e^l 
The Qre*>l;'» heiole he*\xtyj 'nixidat hi* haftd, 
The gatheT<\\ virtne of a ^^nking land, 
Alaa \ }\w( s«,>a«ty ! — New ia eaat aaide 
AU fwm ofyn^ineely state? each neWe hand 
la pife&t hy twns iw hia; ft>v earthly pvide 
Theie ia «e twi>x in hearta whei^? eatthiy hope 

hath died ! 

1 \'i 
A inwnpnis (VH*i» — auU (]»e« he apeak*— he 

8j>eaka ! 
But net ef hepe! thai thwm hath Iwg gwxe hyj 
Hia wwila ajv ftxH wf jnenwv— aa he seeka, 
By the stxeo»>g nanxea <xf Ronie and Uiherty, 
Which yet a^e M\i>\g \x>wexs that five the eye. 
And iwxse the heart ef n\anh(XK\ 5 and hy aU 
The sad yet gx-and lememhi^noea that he 
I>eep with eavth'a h«m\ hex-oea j to reeaU 
The sonl of other ye«««ii, if hxU to grace their M J 

Hb wortia are ft»U of faith 5 — And thoughts, unore 

high 
Than Roine e'er knew, now fill hia ^anoe with 

Kght ; 
Thoxighti wh^eb gave noWer lessons how to die 
Than e'er were tbrawn fto» Fatixre"^ haughty 

might . 
And to that eye, with all the sjiixit bright. 
Have t)M»ixa re|>Ke<\ in tears^ whic'h xxxay not shajxxe 
The bravest in sneh mo*x>ej\ta ! — 'T is a sight 
To make all earthly splendours cold and tan>e, 
•That gexiwsua huW of soul, with its eleotrie 

flame ! 

They weep— those ehampions of the cross— they 

wee^v 
Yet vow themselves to tleath t-— Ay, 'Se^^ that 

train 
Ax"e martyrs, px-ivilegeii in tears to steep 
Their lofty saewfice ! — The pang is vain, 
Awi yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain 
A warriors swor<.l.— Those men are strangers 

he«e-<U) 
The hon»es, they never may behold again, 
Lie fi»r away, with all things blest and de«r, 
• MX laughing shores, o which their barka no more 

shall ateer ! 



UK. 

Know'at then the land where hloo«n th« * 

bowers i( 13) 
Whexti' thxvngh dari? Mage gleam the dtiw** 

tlyea*} 
It is tlwir own, Tht>y aae th»<ir father'a towera 
>Midat its HeapexHaix gjwt^a in annhght rise; 
They meet in stxul, ihe bright Italian eyea, 
Whioh Iwxg and vainly shall axplexv \\w nxain 
For their white aaila x>?iuvn ; tht> nu^lwUea 
Of that awee5 laxxd axv fli>atixxg o'er their l>rai»x— 
—Oh J what a er^xwxled w©rld o»xe moxnent may 

eoixtaixx 1 

Sxxeh xxxonxexxts ooixxe to thousaxxds 5— tbw may 

die 
Axxxidst their xxative shades, Tho yomxg, the 

braw. 
The l>eautiftxl, whose gladdening veJw and eye 
Made suwuxer in a j^ax-ent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopletl ho«xea j o'er land axxd wave 
Are aeattexv^l fast and fixr, aa xwe-leaves iKll 
Fro«n the des^x-te^l stem. They find a gx-^ve 
Far ft-om the slxadow of th' ancestral hall, 
—A loxxely be^i is theirs, whose smiles were hope 

to all I 

XLl, 

Bxxt life flows o»x, and \>eax's «s with its tide, 
Kor may we, livxgering, by the slvmxberers dwell, 
Thoxigh they were those oixee bleonxing at our 

»de 
In yoxxth's gay home! — Away! what sound's 

deep swell 
Oojxxes on the wixxd "J — It is an empire's knell, 
Slow, sad, xxxjyestie, pealing through the night 5 
Foir the last tixxxo s^x^aks tbvHh tho solemn bell, 
Which calls the Christiana to their holiest rite, 
With a fuixs^ival v\>iw of sohtary might. 

Again, and yet again i—A startling jx»wer 
In sounds like these Hves evor ; for they bear, 
Full on rexxxenxbraxxce each evoxxtt\»l hour, 
Ohetixxex-ixxg hte's crowded j>ath. They fill the 

air 
When eenqnerors pass, »xx*,l fi>arftxl cities wear 
A n^n li^e jjoysj and when youxxg brides are 

led 
From their paternal homes; axxd when the glare 
Of bxirnixig stx-eets, on uxidixight's cloud, wavvs 

red, 
And when the silent house receives its guest — the 

dead.(lS) 

LXIII, 

But to those tones what thrilUtxg sovxl was givea, 
On that last ixight of enxpire !— As a s^wll 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



IS7 



Whereby the lilc-blood to its source is driven, 
On the chilled iieart of niuititiules they fell. 
Each cadence seemed a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away. 
An angel-watcher's long and sad farewell, 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's de- 
cay. 

LXIV. 

Again, and yet again ! — from yon high dome. 
Still the slow peal comes awfully ; and they 
Who never more to rest in mortal home. 
Shall throw the breastplate ofl'at fall of day, 
Th' imperial 'jand in close and armed array 
As men that from the sword must part no more. 
Take through the midnight streets their silent 

way. 
Within their ancient temple to adore, 
Ere yet its thousand years of christian pomp are 
o'er. 

LXV. 
It is fne hour of sleep: yet few the eyes. 
O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed. 
In the beleagured city. Stillness lies 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread, 
But not the less with signs and sounds of dread. 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street. 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious 
why they meet. 

LXVI. 

Their homes are luxury's yet : why pour they 

thence 
With a dim terror in each restless eye 1 
Hath the dread car, which bears the pestilence, 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels, rolled by. 
And rocked their palaces, as if on high. 
The whirlwind passed 1 — From couch and joy- 
ous board 
Hath the fierce phantom beckoned them to die 1 
— No! — what are these 1 — for them a cup is 
poured(14) 
More dark with wrath ; — Man comes — the spoiler 
and the sword. 

LXVI!. 

Still as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Throng! I those pale throngs, the streaming 

torchlight throws 
On some wild form, amidst the living mass, 
Hues, deeply red, like lava's, which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn by mortal 

woes! 



Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasued 

in prayer. 
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears- ail outward 

shows 
Betokening inward agonies, were there: 
— Greeks ! Romans ! all but such as image brave 

despair! 

LXVIII. 

But high above that scene in bright repose, 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems. 
Pale, grand, colossal ; lo ! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore! — Gods, heroes, bards, in marble 

wrought. 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes. 
Of mortal passion ! — Yet 't was man that caught, 
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal 
thought! 

LXIX. 

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome? 
That Rome which witnessed, in her sceptred 

days. 
So much of noble death 1 — When shrine and 

dome, 
'Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays, 
As the long triumph passed with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, 
O sovereign forms! concentering all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings 1 — did ye not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on and 
to mourn? 

LXX. 

Hath it been thus? — Or did ye grace the halls, 
Once peopled by the mighty? — Haply there, 
In your still grandeur, from the pillared walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair. 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare, 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed aii, 
The sound of lyres, the flower-crowned goblet's 
flow:(15) 
— Behold again ! — high hearts make nobler oflfer- 
ings now ! 

LXXl. 

The stately fane is reached — and at its gate 
The warriors pause; on lif(^ tumultuous tidu 
A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state 
Hath marked from all, to be more sternly tricu, 
By suffering, speaks: — each ruder voice hath 

died. 
While his implores forgiveness ! — " If there bo 
One 'midst your throngs, my peojile ' — whom u. 

pride, 



Or passion, I have wronged ; such pardon, free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man 
tome!" 

LXXII. 

But all is silence; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies! — He hath not been of those 
Who, feared by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; th' environed but by slaves and foes. 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose. 
For they have heard the voice cry " sleep no 

more .'" 
Of them he hath not been, nor such, as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er, 
When it speaks low and kneels th' oppressor's 
throne before ! 

LXXIII. 

He hath been loved— but who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race? — in other mould 
Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials.— Yet behold. 
And call him not forsaken. — Thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine.— What pomps un- 
fold 
Within its precincts ! — Isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' impe- 
rial dead. 

LXXIV. 

'Tis a proud vision — that most regal pile 

Of ancient days! — the lamps are streaming 

bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillared isle. 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light 
Developes on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the veined marbles, which array their height, 
And from yon dome,(16) the lode-star of all 

eyes, 
Pour aupb an iris- glow as emulates the skies. 

LXXV. 

But gaze thou not on these; though heaven's 

own hues 
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie ; 
Though tints, of ain-born glory, may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic : pass thou by 
The stately tombs, where eastern Csesars lie, 
Beneath their trophies; pause not here, for 

know, 
A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show, 
La iiature or in art, above, around, below. 



LXXVI. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy 

gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone ; 
Heed not, though gems and gold around it blaze 
Those heads unhelmed, those kneeling forms? 

alone. 
Thus bowed, look glorious liere. The light i? 

thrown 
Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord 
A sufferer ! — but his task shall soon be done — 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is poured, 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, re 

stored ! 

LXXVII. 

The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part, 
Once — and but once — to meet on earth again ! 
Each, in the strength of a collected heart. 
To dare what man may dare — and know 't is 

vain ! 
The rite is o'er, and thou majestic fane! 
The glory is departed from thy brow ! 
Be clothed with dust ! — the Christian's farewell 

strain 
Hath died within thy walls; thy Cross must 

bow; 
Thy kingly tombs be spoiled ; thy golden^ shrines 

laid low ! 

LXXVIII. 

The streets grow still and lonely — and the star 
The last bright lingerer in the path of moiH, 
Gleams famt ; ana m the very lap of war, 
As if young Hope with Twilight's ray wer* 

born. 
Awhile the city sleeps : — her throngs, oerwon, 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire; 
Nor is the balmy air of day spring torn 
With battle sounds ;(17) the winds in sighs ex- 
pire. 
And Gluiet broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's 
fire. 

LXXIX. 

The city sleeps! — ay! on the combat's eve, 
And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the swell 
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve 
Thus from her cares. The brave have slum- 
bered well. 
And e'en the fearful, in their dungcon-cell. 
Chained between Life and Death ! — Such rest 

be thine, 
For conflicts wait tliee still ! — Yet who can tell 
In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may 
shine 
Pull on thy spirit's dream 1 — Sleep, weary Con 
stantine ; 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



18'J 



LXXX. 

Doth the blast rise 1 — the clouded East is red, 
As if a storm were gathering ; and 1 hear 
What sccins like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, 
The soft and smothered step, of those tliat fear 
Surprise 'from ambushed foes. Hark! yet more 

near 
It ' )mes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A. rustling, as of winds where boughs are sear, 
A rolling as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far ; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their 
bound ! 

LXXXI. 

Wake, wake I They come from sea and shore 

ascending 
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day! 
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rend- 

Through tower and wall, a path for their array? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey. 
With its wild voice to which the seas reply ! 
And the earth rocks beneath their engine's sway, 
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry, 
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 
sky! 

LXXXII. 

They fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling 

throne ; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong. 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! 
— Shall those high energies be vainly shown? 
No I from their towers th' invading tide is driven 
Back, like the Red-sea waves, when God had 

blown 
With his strong winds 1(18) — the dark-browed 

ranks are riven — 
Shout, warriors of the cross! — for victory is of 

Heaven I 

LXXXIII. 

Stand firm ! — Again the crescent host is rushing. 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep. 
With all their fires and darts, though blood is 

gushing 
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm! — there yet is hope — th' ascent is 

steep, 
And from on high no shaft descends in vain ; 
—But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, 
In the red moat, the dying and the slain. 
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount 

again ! 

LXXXIV. 

Oh ! the dread mingling in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds ! — the savage tone 



Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower 
Of hissing darts, the crash of wall's o'erthrown. 
The deep, dull tambour's beat! — man's voice 

alone 
Is there unheard I Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, and 

moan. 
All drowned, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory ! 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds have wrapt the city ! — through their 

dun 
O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze, 
As of an angry storm-presaging sun. 
From the Greek fire shoots up ;(I9) and light- 
ning rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the 

haze, 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air ! 
— Ay ! this is in the compass of our gaze, — 
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there. 
Workings of Wrath and Death, and Anguish, and 
Despair ! 

LXXXVI. 

Wo, shame and wo ! — A chief, a warrior flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ! 
— Oh God ! that nature's passing agonies 
Thus o'er the spark which dies not should pre- 
vail! 
Yes ! rend the arrow from thy shattered mail. 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen 

son !(20) 
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ! 
— But there are tortures which thou canst not 
shun. 
The spirit is their prey ; — thy pangs are but begun J 

LXXXVII. 

Oh ! happy in their homes, the noble dead ! 

The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 

Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 

shed. 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name 
Theij may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years; from many a lifty stem 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts ;;row tame, 
And stars drop, fading, from the diad.^m ; 
But the bright past is theirs — there is jio change 

for them ! 

LXXXVIII. 

Where art thou Constantine! — Where Death 

is reaping 
His sevenfold harvest ! Where 'he storm v light, 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are swt eping, 
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noi>ndav 

night 2 



::iJ 



190 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height, 
As the earthquaKC, and the engines ply 
Like red Vesuvio ; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high. 
While scymetars ring loud on shivering panoply. 

LXXXIX. 

Where art thou Constantine 7 — Where Chris- 
tian blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood, 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment : where the gallant 

slain 
Around the banner of the cross lie strewed. 
Thick as the \dne-leaves on the autumnal plain ; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued. 
And through the breach press on the o'erwhelming 
multitude. 

XC. 

Now is he battling 'midst a host alone, 
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway 
Of mountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown 
Its forest-brethren in their green array 1 
And he hath cast his purple robe away, 
With its im])erial bearings ; that his sword 
An iron ransom from the chain may pay. 
And win, what haply Fate may yet accord, 
A soldier's death, the all now left an empire's lord ! 

XCI. 

Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files 
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave ! 
Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles 
Of shattered helms and shields, which could not 

save; 
And crests and banners, never more to wave 
In the free winds of heaven I — He is of those 
O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave, 
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close, 
Vet wake them not 1 — so deep their long and last 
repose ! 

XCII. 

Wo to the vanquished ! thus it hath been still, 
Since Time's first march ! — Hark, hark, a peo- 
ple's cry ! 
Ay ! now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath ! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek ! — The lot is cast. 
Slaves, 'twasyour cAowe, thus, rather thus, to die, 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 
fast, 
'Vnd roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the 
last I 



XCIII. 

Oh ! well doth freedom battle ! — Mftn have made 
E'en 'midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand. 
And on the floors, where once their children 

played. 
And by the hearths, round which their house 

hold band 
At evening met ; ay ! struggling hand to hand 
Within the very chambers of their sleep. 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land, 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep,' 
To guard free homes ! — but ye ! kneel, tremblers ! 
kneel and weep ! 

XCIV. 
'T is eve — the storm hath died — the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work is 

done. 
And blood-stained seas and burning towers attefst 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 
Upon the captive city. Hark ! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim Barbaric war-fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell, 
The Soldan comes within the Caesars' halls ts 
dwell 1 

XCV. 

Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong. 
He comes, — the Moslem treads those ancierV 

halls ! 
But all is stillness there, as Death had long 
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appals 
The conqueror's heart. Ay, thus with Tri- 
umph's hour, 
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds thai loWer 
O'er Grandeur's path, a sense of some far mightier 
Power 1 

XCVL 

" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch-song, and around th' imperial throne 
The spider weaves his web !"(21) Still darkly 

hung 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone, 
O'er his flushed spirit. Years on years have flown 
To prove its truth : kings pile their domes in air, 
That the coiled snake may bask on sculptured 

stone. 
And nations clear the forest, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings 
. there ! 

XCVII. 
But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying 
As a crowned leader in such hours should die, 



Upon thy pyre of shivered spears art lying, 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy, 
Ami liannors for thy shroud ! — No tear, no sigh. 
Shall mingle with thy dirge ; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! reared on high, 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow; 
But where no change can reach, there, Constan- 
tino, art thou 1 

XCVIII. . 

" After life's fitful fever thou sleepest well !" 
We may not mourn thee ! — Sceptred chiefs, 

from whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling — to a sterner doom 
Have oft been called. For them the dungeon's 

gloom, 
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb. 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh- 
ed 
7'heir very soul to dust, with each high power de- 
cayed. 

XCIX. 

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood. 
To meet the stroke of Death — but not like thee ! 
From bonds and scaffolds hath appealed their 

blood. 
But tbou didst fall unfettered, armed, and free, 
And kingly to the last ! — And if it be. 
That, from the viewless world, whose marvels 
t, none 

Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth ; still mayest thou hail the 
sun, 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when Freedom's 
fight is won 1 

C. 

And the hour comes, in storm! — A light is 

glancing 
Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades! 
— 'T is not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades; 
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades. 
Round dark Citha;ron, and by Delphi's steep ; 
— ' T is not the song and lyre of Grecian maids. 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep. 
Nor yet the rusthng pines, nor yet the sounding 
deep! 

CI. 

Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old. 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain, 
And by tlie streams, once crimson as they rolled 
The Persian helm and standard to the main; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 



Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply. 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each 

plain, 
Far as Platasa's, where the mightj' lie, 
Wiio crowned so proudly there the bowl of liber- 
ty!(22) 

CII. 

Bright land with glory mantled o'er by song, 
Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along, 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be 

themes 
To verse for ever ; and of ruined shrines, 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines 1 
— When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath 
their vines'? 

cm. 

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor 

fear! 
— Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 
O'er Mantintea's earth? — doth Pindus rear 
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave! 
And is there yet on Marathon a gravel 
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 
By Sparta's ruins % — And shall man, a slave, 
Bowed to the dust, amid such scenes repine ? 
— If e'er a soil was marked for Freedom's step — 
't is thine! 

CIV. 

Wash from that soil the stains, with battle- 
showers ! 
— Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays. 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-ljowers, 
In the Comneni's halls(23) the Tartar sways: 

But not for long ! — the spirit of those days. 

When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 

Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian 
isle. 

CV. 

If then 't is given thee to arise in might, 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down th« 

chain, 
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign, 
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain, 
She dies forsaken ; but repose o\ir trust 
On Him whose ways are da 'k, unsearchable — b'j» 
just. 



S915 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 180, col. 2. 
While Ismael's bow, &c. 
The army of Mahomet the Second, at the siege 
of Constantinople, was thronged with fanatics of 
all sects and nations, who were not enrolled 
amongst the regular troops. The Sultan himself 
marched upon the city from Adrianople; but his 
army must have been principally collected in the 
Asiatic provinces which he had previously visited. 

Note 2, page 181, col. 1. 
Bring wine, bring odours, &c. 



Hue vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves 
Flores amoenae ferre jube rosee. 

Hot. lib. ii. od. 3. 

Note 3, page 181, col. 1. 

From the Seven Towers, &c. 
The Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned 
in the Byzantine' history, as early as the sixth 
century of the Christian era, as an edifice which 
contributed materially to the defence of Constanti- 
nople; and it was the principal bulwark of the 
town on the coast of the Propontis, in the latter 
periods of the empire. For a description of this 
building see Pouqueville s Travels. 

Note 4, page 181, col. 2. 
With its long march of sceptred imagery. 
An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying 
in procession, at the funerals of their great men, 
the images of their ancestors. 

Note 5, page 181, col. 2. 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away. 
The following was the ceremony of consecration 
with which Decius devoted himself in battle. He 
was ordered by Valerius, the pontifex maximus, 
to quit his military habit, and put on the robe 
he wore in the senate. Valerius then covered 
his head with a veil; commanded him to put 
forth his hand under his robe to his chin, and 
standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat 
these words: "O Janus, Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, 
Bellona, and ye Lares and Novensiles ! All ye 
heroes who dwell in heaven, and all ye gods who 
rule over us and our enemies, especially ye gods 
of hell ! I honour you, invoke you, and humbly 
intreat you to prosper the arms of the Romans, 
and 10 transfer all fear and terror from them to 
tbei' enemies ; and I do, for the safety of the 
Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, 
and with myself the army and auxiliaries of the 
eneray to the infernal gods, and the goddess of the i 



earth." Decius then, girding his robe around him, 
mounted his horse, and rode full speed into the 
thickest of the enemy's battalions. The Latins 
were, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle: 
but at length recovering themselves, they discharg- 
ed a shower of darts, under which the consul fell. 

Note 6, page 182, col. 1. 

Lo ! Christian pennons streaming 

Red o'er the waters ! <fec. 

See Gibbon's animated description of the arri 
val of five Christian ships, with men and provi- 
sions, for the succour of the besieged, not many 
days before the fall of Constantinople. — Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215. 

Note 7, page 183, col. 1. 

As when the wind hath blown 

O'er Indian groves, &c. 

The summits of the lofty rocks in the Carnatic, 
particularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes co- 
vered with the bamboo tree, which grows in thick 
clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity, that in 
the sultry season of the year the friction occasion- 
ed by a strong dry wind will literally produce 
sparks of fire, which frequently setting the woods 
in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator stationed in a 
valley surrounded by rocks, a magnificent, though 
imperfect circle of fire. — Notes to Kindersley'i 
Specimens of Hindoo Literature. 

Note 8, page 184, col. I. 

The snowy crown # 

Of far Olympus, &c. 

Those who steer their westward course through 
the middle of the Propontis may at once descry the 
high lands of Thrace and Bithynia, and never 
lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount Olympus, 
covered with eternal snows. — Decline and Fall, 
d^c. vol.* iii. p. 8. 

Note 9, page 184, col. 2. 

Mohammed's face 

Kindles beneath their aspect, &c. 

Mahomet 11. was greatly addicted to the study 
of astrology. His calculations in this science led 
him to fix upon the morning of the 29th of May 
as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the 
city. 

Note 10, page 185, col. 2. 
Thy Georgian bride, &c. 
Constantine Palseologus was betrothed to a 
Georgian princess; and the very spring which wit- 
nessed the fall of Constantinople had been fixed 
upon as the time for conveying the imperial bridfl 
to that city. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



193 



Note 11, page 186, col. 1. 

Those men are strangers here. 
Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his 
last noble stand for the liberties, or rather the 
honour, of a falling empire, were foreigners and 
chieliy Italians. 

Note 12, page 186, col. 2. 
Knowest thou the land, &c. 
This and the next line are an almost literal 
translation from a beautiful song of Goethe's : 
Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen bliihn 
Mit dunkein laub die gold orangen gliihnl &c. 

Note 13, page 186, col. 2. 

The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully 
amplified in Schiller's poem " Das Lied der 
Glocke." 

Note 14, page 187, col. 1. 
Hath the fierce phantom, &e. 
It is said to be a Greek superstition that the 
plague is announced by the heavy roUing of an 
invisible chariot, heard in the streets at midnight ; 
and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, 
who summons the devoted person by name. 

Note 15, page 187, col. 2. 

Ye smiled on banquets of despair, &c. 

Many instances of such banquets, given and 
shared by persons resolved upon death, might be 
adduced from ancient history. That of Vibius 
Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable. 

Note 16, page 188, col. 1. 

Yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes. 

For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, 
and porphyries, employed in the construction of 
St. Sophia, see The Decline and Fall, d^c. vol. vii. 
p. 120. 

Note 17, page 188, col, 2. 

Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn 
With battle-sounds, &c 

The assault of the city took place at day- break, 
and tlic Turks were strictly enjoined to advance 
in silence, which had also been commanded, on 
pain of death, during the preceding night. This 
circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, 
in her tragedy of Constantine Pala;ologus: 

"Silent shall oe the march: nor drum, nor trump, 

Nor clash of arms, sliall to the watchful foe 

Our near appniach betray: silent and soft, 

A? the pard's velvet foot on Lybia's sands. 

Slow stealing with crouched shoulders on her prey." 

Constantine Palaologus, Act iv. 

" The march and labour of thousanns" must, 
however, as Gibbon observes, " have inevitably 
produi^ed a strange confusion of discordant cla- 
19 



mours, which reached the ears of the watchmen 
on the towers." 

Note 18, page 189, col. 1. 

^The dark-browed ranks are risen. 

" After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks stil. 
maintained and preserved their advantage," says 
Gibbon. The strenuous exertions of the janiza- 
ries first turned the fortune of the day. 

Note 19. page 189, col. 2. 
From the Greek fire shoots up, &c. 
" A circumstance that distinguisbe.'s the siege of 
Constantinople is the reunion of the ancient and 
modern artillery. The bullet and the battering- 
ram were directed against the same wall ; nor had 
the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of 
the liquid and unextinguishable fire." — Decline 
and Fall, <^c., vol. xii. p. 213. 

Note 20, page 189, col. 2. 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son ! 
" The immediate loss of Constantinople may be 
ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the 
gauntlet of John Justiniani (a Genoese chief). 
The sight of his blood, and exquisite pain, ap- 
palled the courage of the chief, whose arms and 
counsels were the firmest rampart of the city." — 
Decline and Fall, c^c, vol. xii. p. 229. 

Note 21, page 190, col. 2. 

The owl upon Afrasiab's towei-s hath simg 
Her watch-song, &c. 

Mahomet II., on entering, after his victory, the 
palace of the Byzantine emperors, was strongly 
impressed with the silence and desolation which 
reigned within its precincts. A melancholy re- 
flection on the vicissitudes of human greatness 
forced itself on his mind, and he repeated an ele- 
gant distich of Persian poetry: " The spider has 
wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl 
hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afra- 
siab.' " — Decline and Fall, tf'c, vol. xii. p. 240. 

Note 23, page 191, col. 2. 

Tlie bowl of liberty. 

One of the ceremonies by which the battle of 
Platfea was annually commemorated was, to crown 
with wine a cup called the Bowl of Liberty, which 
was afterwards poured forth in libation. 

Note 23, page 191, col. 2. 
In the Comneni's halls, <i:c 
The Comneni were amongst the most distin- 
guished of the families who filled the Byzantine 
throne in the declining years of the easieni eish 
pire. 



,J 



=D 



194 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



I. 



THE STORM OF DELPHI.* 

Far through the Delphian shades 

An Eastern trumpet rung! 
And the startled eagle rushed on high, 
With sounding flight through the fiery sky, 
And banners o'er the shadowy glades, 

To the sweeping winds were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 

All waving, as a flame, 
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head 
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed, 
And a peal of Asia's war-notes told 

That in arms the Persian came. 

He came, with starry gems 

On his quiver and his crest; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless orient burning lay, 
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, 

As onward his thousands pressed. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way. 

And a heavy moan went by ! 
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell, 
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell. 
But a mortal murmur of dismay. 

Or a warrior's dying sigh ! 

A gloom fell o'er their way! 

'T was not the shadow cast 
By the dark pine-boughs as they passed the blue 
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ; 
— The air was filled with a mightier sway, 

— But on the spearmen passed ! 

And hollow to their tread, 

Came the echoes of the ground, 
And banners drooped, as with dews o'erborne. 
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn 
Had an altered cadence, dull and dead. 

Of strange foreboding sound. 

— But they blew a louder strain. 
When the st^p defiles were passed! 
And afar the crowned Parnassus rose, 
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows. 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

'Midst tae laurels gleaming lone. 



Sea tha acMunt cited from Herodotus, in Mitford's Greece. 



For the Sun-God yet, with a lovely smile, 
O'er its graceful pillars looked awhile, 
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood 
Grew deep, round its mountain-throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 

But the marble-walls replied, 
With a clash of steel, and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore. 
And a savage trumpet's note pealed out, * 

Till their hearts for terror died ! 

On the armour of the God, 

Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, 
And corslet brought from the shrine within, 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode, 

And before its front arrayed. 

And a sudden silence fell 
Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the wdld bird's wing, and the myrtle-spray, 
And the very founts, in their silvery way. 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell, 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pau=ie was broken soon! 

'T was not by song or lyre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers. 
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers. 
But there burst a sound through the misty noon. 

That battle-noon of fire ! 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 

It rolled from crag and cloud! 
For a moment of the mountain-blast. 
With a thousand stormy voices passed. 
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 

When the thunder pealed aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flashed forth, like javelins thrown; 
Like sun-darts winged from the silver bow. 
They smote the spear and the turbaned brow. 
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spraj 
And the baiuiers were struck down ! 

And the massy oak-boughs crashed 

To the fire-bolts from on high. 
And the forest lent its billowy roar, 
While the glorious tempest onward bore, 
And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed. 

With the fierce rain sweeping by. 



GREEK SONGS. 



195 



Then rushed the Delphian men 

On the pale and scattered host; 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rushed from the dim Corycian cave, 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 

Rolled on, with the spears they tossed. 

There were cries of wild dismay, 
There were shouts of warrior-glee, 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth ; 
But the mount of song, when they died away, 
Still rose, with its temple, free! 

And the Paean swelled ere long, 

lo Paean ! from the fane ; 
lo Paean ! for the war-array. 
On the crowned Parnassus riven that day! 
-Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song ! 

With thy bounding streams again. 



II. 

THE BOWL OP LIBERTY.* 

Before the fiery sun, 
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, 
In the free air, and on the war-field won. 
Our fathers crowned the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood. 
The tombs of heroes ! with the solemn skies. 
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood 
Had steeped the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

They called the glorious dead. 
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, 
And poured rich odours o'er their battle-bed. 
And bade them to the rite of Liberty. 

They called them from the shades. 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
IIow softer liglit th' immortal clime pervades. 
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel. 

Then fast the bright red winet 
Flowed to their names who taught the world to die. 
And made the land's green turf a living shrine. 
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty. 



So the rejoicing earth 
Took from her vines again the blood she gave, 
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth 
From the free soil thus hallowed to the brave. 

We have the battle-fields. 
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, 
We have the founts the purple vintage yields ; 
— When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty ! 



• This and the following piece appeared originally in the 
New Monthly Magazine 

t For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in 
eommemoration of (he battle of Platasa, see Potter's Ariiigui- 
tics of Greece, vol. L p. 389. 



III. 
THE VOICE OF SCIO. 

A VOICE from Scio's isle, 
A voice, of song, a voice of old. 
Swept far as cloud or billow rolled, 

And earth was hushed the while. 

The souls of nations woke ! 
Where lies the land whose hills among, 
That voice of Victory hath not rung. 

As if a trumpet spoke 1 

To sky, and sea, and shore 
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain, 
Swept from the rivers to the main, 

A glorious tale it bore. 

Still, by our sun-Bright deep. 
With all the fame that fiery lay 
Threw round them, in its rushing way, 

The sons of battle sleep. 

And kings their turf have crowned I 
And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave 
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, 

Who thus their bard have found ! 

A voice from Scio's isle, 
A voice as deep hath risen again ! 
As far shall peal its thrilling strain, 

Where'er our sun may smile ! 

Let not its tones expire I 
Such power to waken earth and heaven, 
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given 

To mortal song or lyre ! 

Know ye not whence it comes'? 
— From ruined hearths, from burning fanea. 
From kindred blood on yon red plains. 

From desolated homes ! 

'T is with us through the night • 
'T is on our hills, 't is in our sky — 
— Hear it, ye heavens ! when swords flash hlgo 

O'er the mid- waves of fight ! 



19fa 



MRS HEMANS' WORKS. 



IV. 

THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.* 



"Tne Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into 
battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite 
the rage of their warriors. Their charging step was made to 
the ' Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of 
a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or 
rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the 
spur." — Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks, 



'T WAS morn upon the Grecian hills, 
Where peasants dressed the vines, 

Sunlight was on Citliseron's rills, 
Arcadia's rocks and pines. 

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 

Eurotas wandered by, 
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 

Of solemn harmony. 

Was it the hunters' choral strain 
To the woodland-goddess poured? 

Did virgin-hands in Pallas' fane 
Strike the full- sounding chord 1 

But helms were glancing on the stream. 

Spears ranged in close array, 
And shields flung back a glorious beam 

To the morn of a fearful day ! 

And the mountain-echoes of the land 
Swelled through the deep blue sky, 

While to soft strains moved forth a band 
Of men that moved to die. 

They marched not with the trumpet's blast, 

Nor bade the horn peal out, 
And the laurel groves, as on they passed, 

Rung with no battle-shout ! 

They asked no clarion's voice to fire 
Their souls with an impulse high ; 

But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre 
For the sons of liberty 1 

And still sweet flutes, their path around. 

Sent forth Eolian breath ; 
They needed not a sterner sound 

To marshal them for death ! 



' Originally publislied in the Edinburgh Magazine. 



So moved they calmly to their field, 

Thence never to return. 
Save bearing back the Spartan shield, 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



THE URN AND SWORD. 

They sought for treasures in the tomb, 
Where gentler hands were wont to spread 
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom. 
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.* 

They scattered far the greensward-heap, 

Where once those hands the bright wine poured , 

What found they in tlie home of sleep'? 

A mouldering urn, a shivered sword ! 

An urn, which held the dust of one 
Who died when hearths and shrines were free ; 
A sword, whose work was proudly done, 
Between our mountains and the sea. 

And these are treasures ! — undismayed, 
Still for the suffering land we trust, 
Wherein the past its fame hath laid. 
With freedom's sword, and valor's dust. 



VI. 
THE MYRTLE-BOUGH. 

Still green along our sunny shore 

The flowering myrtle waves, 
As when its fragrant boughs of yore 

Were ofiered on the graves ; 
The graves, wherein our mighty men 
Had rest, unviolated then. 

Still green it waves ! as when the hearth 

Was sacred through the land ; 
And fearless was the banquet's mirth. 

And free the minstrel's hand; 
And guests, with shining myrtle crowned. 
Sent the wreathed lyre and wine-cup round 

Stifl green! as when on holy ground 

The tyrant's blood was poured : 
— Forget ye not what garlands bound 

The young deliverer's sword I 
— Though earth may shivud Harmodius now, 
We still have sword and myrtle-bough! 



' See Potter's Oi-,./-ian Antiqi'ities, vol ii, p. '.^34. 



>ons^ of tlie ©i^,« 



The following ballads are not translations from 
the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the 
' wild and wonderful' traditions preserved in the 
romances of that language, and the ancient poem 
of the Cid. 



THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE. 

With sixty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Campeador of Spain ; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left the lands of his own Bivar.(l) 

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent, 
F?-im his home in good Castile he went; 
To the wasting siege and the battle's van, 
— F or the noble Cid was a banished man ! 

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze played, 
And his native streams wild music made, 
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay. 
When for march and combat he took his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, 
And he turned his steed for a parting look. 
For a parting look at his own fair towers; 
— Oh 1 the Exile's heart hath weary hours ! 

The psnnons were spread, and the band arrayed, 
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stayed; 
It was but a moment — the halls were lone. 
And the gates of his dweUing all open thrown. 

There was not a steed in the empty stall, 
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, 
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door. 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floorXS) 

Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye, 
As the voice of his native groves went by; 
And he said — " My focmen their wish have won — 
— Now the will of God be in all things done !" 

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer. 
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear. 
And 'lie fields of his glory lay distant far, 
- -He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar '. 



' Originally published in tlie New Monthly Magazine. 
19* . 



THE CID'S DEATH-BED. 

It was an hour of grief and fear 

Within Valencia's walls, 
When the blue spring-heaven lay still and cYear 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled ej'es, 

And steps of hurrying feet, 
Where the Zambra's(3) notes were wont to rise, 

Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief, 

On bright Valencia's shore. 
For death was busy with her chief, 

The noble Campeador. 

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, 

With sounds and signs of war. 
For the Cid was passing to his sleep, 

In the silent Alcazar. 

No moan was heard through the towers of state, 

No weeper's aspect seen. 
But by the couch Ximena sate, 

With pale yet steadfast mien.(4) 

Stillness was round the leader's bed, 

Warriors stood mournful nigh. 
And banners, o'er his glorious head. 

Were drooping heavily. 

And feeble grew the conquering hand, 

And cold the vahant breast ; 
— He had fought the battles of the land. 

And his hour was come to rest. 

What said the Ruler of the field? 

—His voice is faint and low ; 
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield 
Hath louder accents now. 

" Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 

Be made when I depart ; 
The Moor must hear no dirge's tone, 

Be ye of mighty heart ! 

" Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-straii: 
From youi walls ring far and shrill, 

And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 
Shall grant you victory stilL 

" And gird my form with mail-array. 
And set me on my steed, 



198 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKH. 



Go go ye forth on your funeral-way, 
And God shall give you speed. 

" Go with the dead in the front of war, 

All armed with sword and helm, 
And march by the camp of King Bucar, 

For the good Castilian realm. 

" And let me slumber in the soil 

Which gave my fathers birth ; 
I have closed my day of battle-toil, 

And my course is done on earth." 

— Now wave, ye glorious banners, wave !(5) 
Through the lattice a wind sweeps by. 

And the arms, o'er the death-bed of the brave, 
Send forth a hollow sigh. 

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight ! 

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 
The wuid and the banners fall hushed as night, 

The Campeador — he sleeps ! 

Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, 
And swell out the trumpet's blast. 

Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail, 
For the noble Cid hath passed ! 



THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION. 

The Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers, 
And lances gleamed up through her citron-bowers. 
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain. 
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain ; 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the death-wind 

sweeps. 
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, 
There were bows from sands where the ostrich ru ns. 
For the shrill hoin of Afric had called her sons 
To the battles of the West. 

Tne midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard 
Like the roar of waters, the air had stirred ; 
The stars were shining o'er tower and wave. 
And the camp lay hushed, as a wizard's cave; 
But the Christians woke that night. 

They reared the Cid on his barbed steed, 
Iiike a warrior mailed for the hour of need, 
And they fixed the sword in the cold right hand,*> 
Which had fought so well for his fathers' land, 

And the shield from his neck hung bright. 

There was arming heard in Valencia's halls. 
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls ; 
Stars had not faded, nor clouds turned red, 
Whftii the knights had girded the noble dead, 
And the burial-train moved out. 



With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the still death-march of the host begun; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands. 
And they gave no battle shout. 

When the first went forth it was midnight deep. 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep. 
When the last through the city's gates had gone. 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone. 
With a sun-burst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went armed before, 
And Berraudez the Cid's green standard bore ;(6) 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn. 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne, 
On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador came stately then. 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men ! 
The helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led. 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, 
But there rose not a sound of war or wo, 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone. 
The churches were empty, the masses done; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets 

fai. 
Not a foot-fall heard in the Alcazar, 

— So the burial-train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
— And they gave no battle-shout. 

But the deep hills pealed with a cry ere long. 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng . 
With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, 
And a charge of the war-steed in full career. 
It was Alvar Fanez came 1(7) 

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud. 
Had passed before like a threatening cloud ! 
And the storm rushed down on the tented plain. 
And the Archer-CLueen,(8) with her bands lay 
slain. 

For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Lybian kings who had joined his war; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay, 
For the dreadful things they saw .' 



SONGS OF THE CID. 



iS'l 



For it seemed where Minaya his onset made, 
There wore seventy thousand kniglits arrayed, 
All white as the snow on Nevada's steep, 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep ; 
— 'T was a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall, 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire, and a banner pale. 
And a biood-red cross on his shadowy mail, 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse. 
There was death in the Giant-warrior's course ! 
Where his banner streamed with its ghostly light. 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying 
flight, 

For it seemed not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly red. 
As the kings and the leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased to 
slay, 

As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fl.ed ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim-siain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain ; 
— So the Cid to his grave passed on ! 



THE CID'S RISING. 

*T WAS the deep mid-watch of the silent night, 

And Leon in slumber lay, 
When a sound went forth, in rushing niglit. 
Like an army on its way !(9) 
In the stillness of the hour, 
When the dreams of sleep have power, 
And men forget the day. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it VTcnt, 

Till the slumberers woke in dread ; 
The sound of a passing armament. 
With the charger's stony tread. 
There was heard no trumpet's peal, 
But the heavy tramp of steel, 
As a host's, to combat led. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it passed, 

And the hollow pavement rang. 
And the towers, as with a sweeping blast, 
Rocked to the stormy clang ! 
But the march of the viewless train 
Went on to a royal fane. 

Where a priest his night-hymn sang. 

There was knocking that shook the marble floor, 
And a voice at the gate, which said — 



" That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, 
Was there in his arms arrayed ; 
And that with him, from tlie tomb, 
Had the Count Gonzalez come. 
With a host, uprisen to aid ! 

" And they came for the buried king that lay 

At rest in that ancient fane ; 

For he must be armed on the battle-day, 

With them to deliver Spain !" 

— Then the march went sounding on, 

And the Moors, by noontide sun, 

Were dust on Tolosa's plain. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 197, col. 1. 

Bivar, the supposed birth-place of the Cid, Tvas 
a castle, about two leagues from Burgos. 

Note 2, page 197, col. 1, 

Tornaba la cabeza, eestabalos catando: 
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin canados, 
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantes : 
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados. 
Sospiro mio Cid, Poem of the Cid. 

Note 3, page 197, col. 2. 

The zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia 
was taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish fami- 
lies chose to remain there, and reside under hia 
government. 

Note 4, page 197, col. 2. 

The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently 
alluded to in the romances. 

Note 5, page 198, col. 1. 

Banderas antiguas, tristes 
De victorias un tiempo amadas, 
Tremolando estan al viento 
Y lloran aunque no hablan, &c. 
Herder's translation of these romances (Der 
Cid, nach Spanischen Romanzen besungen) are 
remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous fidelity. 

Note 6, page 198, col. 2. 

" And while they stood there, they saw the Cia 
Ruy Diez coming up with three hundred knights ; 
for he had not been in the battle, and they knew 
his green pennon." — Southetjs Chronicle of thf 
Cid. 

Note 7, page 198, col. 2. 
Alvar Fanez Minayi, one. oi the Cid's most 
I distinguished warriors. 



200 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Note 8, page 198, col. 2. 

The archer queen 

A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of fe- 
male warriors, accompanied King Bucar from 
Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that she 
obtained the name of the Star of archers. 
Una Mora muy gailarda, 
Gran maestra en el tirar. 



Con saetas del Aljava, 
De los arcos de Turquia 
Estrella era nombrada, 
Por la destreza que avia 
En el herir de la Xara. 

Note 9, page 199, col. 1. 
See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, p. 353. 



Metiit^^ Df W^^mun. 



ARABELLA STUART. 

"The Lady Arabella," as she has been fre- 
quently entitled, was descended from Margaret, 
eldest daughter of Henry VII. and consequently 
allied by birth to Elizabeth, as well as James I. 
This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune 
of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly 
excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to 
prevent her marrying, shut her out from the en- 
joyment of that domestic happiness which her 
heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a 
secret, but early discovered union with WilUam 
Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarm.ed 
the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were 
immediately placed in separate confinement. From 
this theji found means to concert a romantic plan 
of escape ; and having won over a female attend- 
ant, by whose assistance she was disguised in 
male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent 
sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and 
at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat 
and servants were in waiting. She embarked; 
and, at break of day, a French vessel, engaged to 
icceive her, was discovered and gained. As Sey- 
mour, however, had not yet arrived, she was de- 
airous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him ; 
but this wish was overruled by her companions, 
who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, 
"which," says D'IsraeU, "occasioned so fatal a 
termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, 
tndeed, had escaped from the Tower ;— he reached 
the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting 
with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed ; 
the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; 
but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hmng 
a fisherman to take him op board, he discovered, 
to his grief, or hailing it, that it was not the 
French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair 
and confusion he found another ship from New- 
castle which fur a large sum altered its course, 
and landed him in Flanders." — Arabella, mean- 
time while imploring her attendants to hnger, and 



earnestly looking out for the expected boat of hei 
husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a 
vessel- in the King's service, and brought back to 
a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind 
and constitution gradually sank. " What passed 
in that dreadful imprisonment, can not perhaps be 
recovered for authentic history, — but enough is- 
known ; that her mind grew impaired, that sh» 
finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of hei 
imprisonment was short, that it was only termi- 
nated by her leath. Some effusions, often begai? 
and never ended, written and erased, incoherent 
and rational, yet remain among her papers." — 
D' Israeli's Curiosities of Literature. The fol- 
lowing poem, meant as some record of her fate, 
and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and 
feelings, is supposed to commence during the 
time of her first imprisonment, while her mind was 
yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's 
affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deli- 
verance. 



And is not love in vain, 
Torture enough without a living tomb 7 

Byron. 
Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto. 

Pindemonie. 

I. 

'TwAs but a dream! — I saw the stag leap free, 
Under the boughs where early birds were sing- 
ing, 
I stood, o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree. 

And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest: then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook. 
And lilies quivered by the glade's lone brook. 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 



Into the ileej) wooil's heart; and all passed by, 
Save one — 1 met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flasiiins out joy to mine. — Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back, from tiiy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train. 
And ding, methought, thy hunting spear away. 
And, ligiitly graceful in thy green array, 
Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted, 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power. 
Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless- 
hearted. 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour, 
Ev'n like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest flowers. 

II. 

'T is past! — I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong. 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love, 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above. 
By its undying fervour; and prevail. 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale. 
Thro' hearts now cold; and, raising its bright 

face. 
With a free gush of sunny tears erase 
The characters of anguish ; in this trust 
f bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form. 
No bosom chilled and blighted by the storm. 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 

III. 

A.nd thou too art in bonds ! — yet droop thou not, 
Oh, my beloved ! — there is one hopeless lot. 
But one. and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head. 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, 
When darkness from the vainly-doting sight. 
Covers its beaut'full(l) If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow, — 
/f thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now. 
Seems floating thro' my soul, were music taken 
For ever from this world, — oh ! thus forsaken. 
Could 1 bear onl — thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou 'rt 

mine! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine 
And by the lamp which quencnicss there shall 

burn. 
Sit, a lont watcher for the day's return. 



IV. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watched in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings as of heaven. — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. — To think of such an hour! 

Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Bore down and perishing by noontide's kiss ? 
Yet shall I fear that lotl — the perfect rest. 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast. 
After long-suffering won 1 So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace aflfection's woes. 

V. 

Sunset ! — I tell each moment — from the skies 

The last red splendour floats along my wallj 
Like a king's banner! — Now it melts, it dies ! 

I see one star — I hear — 't was not the call, 
Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbbed too 

soon. 
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam 
Through my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 
Under the vine, or in the citron-grove. 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep, 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. — Hark! a bell's slow chime, 
My heart strikes with it. — Yet again — 'tis time ! 
A step ! — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze 1 
Hark ! — haste ! — I come, to meet thee on the seas. 
*♦*♦**«* 

VI. 

Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — never more ! — the hope is crushed 
That lit my life, the voice within me hushed 
That spoke sweet oracles, and. I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn. 
Where sunshine may not find it. — All is lost! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow tossed; 
Yet were they severed, e'en as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain — in vain < 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves agaiii, 
And press out life. — Upon the deck I stood. 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood. 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seemed slow to that fond yearning : It drew neai, 



Fraught with our foes ! — What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears'? Once more a prison-wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink ! 
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound 
thee : 
An'?, this shall be my strength — the joy to think 
That thou mayst wander with heaven's breath 
around thee; 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken. 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VII. 

My friend, my friend ! where art thou 1 Day by 

day. 
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away, 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while. 
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile. 
Fills the green forest; — young hearts breathe 
their vows ; 
Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; Hope laughs from loving 

eyes : 
All this is in the world !— These joys lie sown. 
The dew of every path — On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall— the stricken deer. 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 

VIII. 

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers ! 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent; 

O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers. 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups 

bent, 

Cluivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen 

Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath 

been, 
Through the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you 
Hath murmured, and the rill. — My soul grows 

faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams 

paint 
Tour haunts by dell and stream, — the green, the 

free, 
The full of all sweet sound, — the shut from me ! 

IX. 

I'bere went d swift bird singing past my cell — 
O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 



I And by the streams ; but I — the blood of kings, 
A proud, umningling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, — and its gifts are chains! 
Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bliss. 
Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car. 
An insect to be crushed. — Oh ! Heaven is far,— 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour 1 I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 
There are such talcs of holy marvels done 
By strong aflfection, of deliverance won 
Through its prevailing power ! Are these thing's 

told 
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 
Wonder, yet dare not doubt, — and thou, oh ! thou, 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay 1 — 
Thou canst not! — through the silent night, ev'n now, 

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. — Oh ! gentle, gentle friend 1 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end 1 

Aid ! — comes there yet no aid ? — the voice of blood 
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 
Sinks through the greensward ! — is there not a cry, 
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, 
To pierce the clouds 1 Hear, Mercy ! hear me 1 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiUng sun, 
Have heavier cause ! — yet hear 1 — my soul grows 

dark — 
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown. 
Its freight of human hearts 1 — th' o'ermastering 

wave ! 
Who shall tell how it rushed — and none to save? 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is poured, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! — a magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass. 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ; — 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all, — 
Thine ! — AVhat dost thou amidst the bright and fair, 
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair? 
It is not well of thee ! — my love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore, 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying. 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying ; 
Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf 
Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou for grief 

Death ! — what, is a death a locked and treasured 

thing. 
Guarded by sword's of fire 1(2) a hidden spring, 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



203 



A fablctl fruit, tliat I should thus endure, 
As if the world within me held no cure ? 
Wherefore not spread free wings — Heaven, Hea- 
ven ! control 
These thou!>hts — they rush — I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array 
Of tierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray, 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stilled. 

Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish 
rilled. 

For human life too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if Thy child. 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild. 
And sinned in her despair ! It well may be, 
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, 
By the crushed hope too long on this world poured. 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
With Thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. 

A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th' o'erwearied dust, from home ; no breeze flits by, 

But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chastened, I depart. 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness. 
Thee, its first love! — oh! tender still, and true! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee I Peace be on thy noble head, 
Years of bright ftimo, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again I 
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth ; but now take back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness 1 Yet send, 
Ev'n then, in silent hours a thought, dear friend ! 
Down to my voiceicss chamber; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 



Though bought with burning tears ! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it tiien, if thou. 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now 1 
Too keen a pang ! — Farewell ! and yet once more. 
Farewell I — the passion of long years I pour 
Into that word : thou hear'st not, — but the wo 
And fervour of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place ; there let them dwell— 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet — Farewell I 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.* 



Fear! — I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death7 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

I will not live degraded. — Sardanajialus, 



Come from the woods with the citron-flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours. 
Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and the breezt 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas; — 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown- 
ed. 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flaslied out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone. 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone ; 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale. 
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil ; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
Tho' clear as a flower which the light looks 

through; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in rnists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She looked on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving las native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone; 

She turned — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are tlie dro[)s that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from love which hath still been true ; 



' Founded on a circumstance related in the Second ^er-o* 
of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a plctuit 
in the " Painted Biograpliy" there (tosoribcd. 



Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest; 

She wept — yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile, 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness! 

She lifted her graceful head at last — 

The choking swell of her heart was past ; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found 

way 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.(3) 



THE BRIDE S FAREWELL. 

Why do I weep? — to leave the vine 

Whose clusters o'er me bend, — 
The myrtle — yet, oh ! call it mine ! — 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 

Like shadows o'er me sweep, 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 

Oh, therefore let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister! we have played 

Through many a joyous hour. 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Y es, thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep. 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet. 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child. 

Lay tones of love so deep. 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled — 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! on thy breast. 

Pouring out joy and wo, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless, — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain. 

Eyes, that have watched my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again ? 

Sweet mother 1 let me weep ! 



And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs. 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
la the numan heart, as a mountain spring. 
That works its way through the torrent's foam, 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 



It is well! — the cloud, on her soul that lay. 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother ! on earth it must still be so. 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng. 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song; 
Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes 

gleam, 
Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream. 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
Is over the deep-veined violet's bed; 
They have light leaves around them, blue skies 

above. 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 

II. 

Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood. 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed. 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high, 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glowed, 
Making a gleam round the lone abode; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scattered out rays like a glancing river; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crowned. 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound, 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay, 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride. 
And the guests were met by that fountain-side ; 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face. 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 
With lips of love, and a brow serene. 
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene. — - 
Bring wine, bring odours ! — the board is spread — 
Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head ! 
The wine-cups foamed, and the rose was showered 
On the young and fair from the world embowered, 
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade, 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
But there came by fits, through some wavy tree, 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! — was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore? 
Silence ! — did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet? — 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword ! 
The groves are filled with a pirate-horde ! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine;— 
Now must the red blood stream for wine 1 




The youth from the banquet to hcattlc sprang, 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang ; 
Under the golden-fruited boughs 
There were Hashing poniards and darkening brows, 
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled ; 
And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora ! thou dost not fly ! — 

She saw but lanthis before her lie. 

With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, 

tike a child's large tears in its hour of wo. 

And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 

That sought his young bride out mournfully. — 

She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, 

Like tendrils, his drooping neck around. 

As if the passion of that fond grasp 

Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 

But they tore her thence in her wild despair, 

The sea's fierce rovers — they left him there ; 

They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 

And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 

And a hush of fear through the summer-grove, — 

So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 

III. 

Gloomy lay the shore that night. 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 
Bathed each purple Sciote hill, — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and stilL 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke, the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal wo, 
In its changes wild or low, 
Through the midnight's blue repose. 
From the sea-beat rocks arose, 
As Eudora's mother stood 
Gazing on th' Egean flood. 
With a fixed and straining eye — 
Oh I was the spoilers' vessel nigh 
Yes ! there, becalmed in silent sleep. 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep. 
On a sea of molten silver dark. 
Brooding it frowned that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast, 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast. 
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail, 
Idly and vainly wooed tiie gale. 
Hushed was ail else — had ocean's breast 
Rocked e'en Eudora that hour to rest? 



What light through the heavens, in a sudden 

spire. 
Shoots from the deck up? Fire! 'tis fire! 
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ; 
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call. 
And the dashing of water, — but fruitless all 1 
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 
The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 
It hath twined tlie mast like a glittering snake, 
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake; 
It hath touched the sails, and their canvass rolls 
Away from its breath into shrivelled scrolls ; 
It hath taken the flag's high place in air, 
And reddened the stars with its wavy glare, 
And sent out bright arrows, and soared in gleo, 
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea. 
Theswimmers are plunging from stern and prow— 
Eudora, Eudora ! where, where art thoul 
The slave and his master alike are gone. — 
Mother! who stands on the deck alone? 
The child of thy bosom ! — and lo ! a brand 
Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 
Swayed by the flames as they rock and flare. 
And her fragile form to its loftiest height 
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might. 
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught, — • 
Oh! could this work be of woman wrought? 
Yes ! 'twas her deed ! — by that haughty smile 
It was her's! — She hath kindled her funeral pile! 
Never might shame on that bright head be, 
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her 

free. 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear. 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near, 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never infold again. 

One moment more, and her hands are clasped, 
Fallen is the torch they had wildly - rasped, 
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bowed. 
And her last look raised through the smoke's dim 

shroud. 
And her lips as in prayer for her pardmi move — 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love !* 



To resf ? — th*-. waves tremble ! what piercing cry * Originally published, as well as several oiher (.r these K* 
Burets from the heart of the ship on hiLrli ? '•'''■'''' '" '''« ^'"'- ^^'^^'-'v ms'a7in^. 



'^06 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 

Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confeder- 
ates of the field of Gruth, had been alarmed by the 
envy with which the Austrian Baihft', Landen- 
berg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and 
comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was 
not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his 
wife, a woman who seems to have been of an he- 
roic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with 
his friends upon the measures by which Switzer- 
land was finally delivered. 



Nor look nor tone revealeth aught ; 
Save women's quietness of thought; 
And yet around her is a light 
Of inward majesty and might. — M. J. J. 

Wer soich ein herz an seinen Busen druckt, 
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten. 

WilUwlm Tell 



It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill. 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still. 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by. 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 
Touched with the crimson of the dying hour, 

Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam, 
And pierced its lattice thro' the vine-hung bow- 
er; 

But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose. 

Then first looked mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the hnden-tree, 

That sent its lulling whispers through his door, 

Even as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

Th' accustomed joy in all which evening brings, 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hushed before him, — sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien ; — he marked it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child 
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered 
spot, 

But seemed unheard ; until at last the boy 

Raised from his heaped up flowers a glance of joy, 

A nd met his father's face : but then a change 
Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

t50 often climbed, and hft his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 



Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look. 
Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and 
said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart iU. 

prey, 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love awayl 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Markest thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, 
Missing the smile from thine 1 Oh! cheer thee! 
bend 

To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried aflection in thy secret care." 

He looked up into that sweet earnest face. 
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band 

Was loosened from his soul; its inmost place 
Not yet unveiled by love's o'ermastering hand. 

" Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high 

The white Alps glittered through the solemn sky: 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couched by forest-rills, 

And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene. 

Yet with the faces best-beloved in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chained, and thee — 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to seeT' 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek , 
Back on the hnden-stem she leaned her form, 

And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak. 
Like a frail harp string, shaken by the storm. 

'Twas but a moment, and the faintness passed, 

And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved. 
And timid in her happiness the while. 

Stood brightly forth, and stedfastly, that hour, 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast. 

And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might 
As it found language: — " Are we thus oppress- 
ed! 

Then must we rise upon our mduntain-sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God! 

" I know what thou wouldst do, — and be it done. 
Thy soul is darkened with its fears for rne. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



2(r 



Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! — this, thy son, 
The babe whom I have born thee, must be free ! 
And tlie sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength — if aught be strong on 
earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills! thy stately head. 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

•' Go forth beside the waters, and along 

The chamois-paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! — Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me, — I can pray !" 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air; 

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears 
breaking 
From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, — 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die. 

" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ! 

Now shall thy name be armour to my heart ; 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled. 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part! 
I go — thy spirit on my words shall dwell. 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps — Farewell! 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake. 

In the clear starlight : he, the strength to rouse 

Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake. 
To rock her child beneath the whispering 
boughs 

Singing its blue, half-curtained eyes to sleep, 

With a low hymn, amidst the stUlness deep. 



PROPERZIA ROSSI. 

Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of 
Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry and 
music, died in consequence of an unrequited at- 
tachment. — A painting by Ducis, represents her 
showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, 
to a Roman Knigbt, the object of her affection, 
who recrards it with indifference. 



Tell mo no more, no more 

Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain 
To quench ila haunting thirst for happiness? 
Have 1 nut loved, and striven, and failed to bind 
One true heart unto nic, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
[i£ burden of aflections 1 I depart, 



Unknown, though Fame goes with me ; I must leave 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tears 
As would have made life precious. 



I. 

One dream of passion and of beauty more! 
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, though its race 
Might have been loftier far. — Yet one more dreiuaJ 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be, 
Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave enshrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind, 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection ; — something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavished ; silent pang and tear. 
And fervent song, that gushed when none were 

near. 
And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 
Stealing the brightness from her hfe away, — 

While thou Awake! not yet within me die, 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness, — my spirit, wake 

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake. 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! — that he may yet, 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 

II. 

It comes, — the power 
Within me born, flows back ; my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images: — they throng — they press — 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, — 
I shall not perish all! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose. 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, 
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows — and 

now 
I give my own life's history to thy brow. 
Forsaken Ariadne ! thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments; bt;t oh! more fair, 
Touched into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-lighl 
All things are glorified. From thee my wo 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
Wlien I am passed away. Thou art the mouftl, 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, 
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 



With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye, 

Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully, 

Of all my love and grief! Oh 1 could I throw 

[nto thy frame a voice, a sweet and low. 

And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigh, 

To send the passion of its melody 

Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to bear, 

My life's tjep feeling, as the southern air 

Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, — to rise, to swell, 

To sink away in accents of farewell, 

Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 

Sureiry my parted spirit yet might know 

If love be strong as death ! 

III. 

Now fair thou art, 
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

It can not make thee ! Oh! I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die! But [ have been 
Too much alone ; a heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep affections, that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of 

spring. 
These are denied me — dreamt of still in vain, — 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain, 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee. 

Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the 

reed 
From storms a shelter, give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine, — 
Give the parched flower a rain-drop, and the 

meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Tb' abiding-place it asked ! Yet how my heart, 
in its own fairy world of song and art. 
Once beat for praise ! — Are those high longings 

o'er T 
That which I have been can I be no more? 
Never, oh! never more; though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still, 
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams, 
U/ichanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams ; 



Never, oh ! never more ! Where'er I move, 

The shadow of this broken-hearted love 

Is on me and around ! Too well they know, 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well. 
When there the blight hath settled ; — but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, 
The inward burning of those words — "in vain" 

Seared on the heart — I go. 'T will soon be past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven, 

And thou, oh ! thou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth, — who knowest not what was 

given 
In that devotedness, — the sad, and deep. 
And unrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is ^ame. Yet I was formed to be 
So richly blest ! With thee to watch the sky 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh; 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along. 
To listen silently ; — with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days. 
This had been joy enough ; — and hour by hour, 
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, 
How had my spirit soared, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow ! — Dreams, dreams !-^the 
fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name — 

As a deep thrill may Hnger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hushed — awhile to live. 
And one day haj)ly in thy heart revive 
Sad thoughts of me : — I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell, — 
Say proudly yet — " ' T was her's who loved me 
well!" 



GERTRUDE, 

OR FIDELITY TILL DEATH. 

The Baron Von Der Wart, accused, though it 
is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assas- 
sination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive 
on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, 
throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most 
heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with 
those of her unfortunate husband, are most affect- 
ingly described in a letter which she afterwards ad- 
dressed to a female friend, and which was publish- 
ed some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled 
Gertrude Von Der Wart or Fidelity unto Death, 



Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrible the storm tliat gathers o'er us; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Wliich severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
Tills fixeil and sacreil hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
In the terrific face of armed law, 
\ ea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee. 

Joanna Baillie. 



Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars vatching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so! 
This is no time to quit thy side, 

Peace, peace ! I can not go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear. 

When death is on thy brow? 
The world! what means it 1 — mine is here — 

I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this! 
And thou, mine honoured love and true 

Bear on, bear nobly on! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart? 
Through all that night of bitterest wo 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love, love ! of mortal agony, 

Thou, only thou shouldst speak! 

The wind rose high, — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear: 
Perchance tliat dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form. 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death -damps from his brow 

With lier pale hands and soft. 
Whoso touch upon the lute-chords low 

Had stilled his heart so oft. 
20» 



She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 
She bathed his lips with dew, 

And on his cheeks such kisses pressed 
As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye. Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit passed. 
While even as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, blessed the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not ! 



IMELDA. 



Someti meg 

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, 
And loved when they should hate,— like thee, Imelda '(4- 
Italy, a Poem. 
Passa la bella Donna, e par che Aovma.— Tasso. 



We have the myrtle's breath around us here. 

Amidst the fallen pillars; — this hath been 
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear, 

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 
Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain wellg, 

And music with it, gushing from beneath 
The ivied altar 1 — that sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of wo or death; 
Yet once the wave was darkened, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops— but not of ram — 
On the dim violets by its marble bed. 
And the pale shining water-lily's head. 

Sad is that legend's truth. — A fair girl met 

One whom she loved, by this lone temple's 
spring, 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, 

With the blue heaven of Italy above. 
And citron-odours dying on the air, 

And light leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. — What recked their souls ol 

strife 
Between their fathers 1 Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, tliey wept far other tears 
Than the cold world wrings forth. They ?>.ooa, 

tliat hour. 

Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and Pow- 
er, 
And star, just gleaming through the cy; "flaw 

boughs. 
Seemed holy things, as records of their vowa. 



'0 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying There lay, as lulled by stream and i-ustling sedge, 

^j,g^j I A youth, a graceful youth. " Oh ! dost thou 

Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew | sleep? 

The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled ! Azzo !" she cried, " my Azzo ! is this resf? 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue But then her low tones faltered 

Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she Is the stain,— yes, 'tis blood 

caught- I ''heek- _ 

Wasittheclashofswords7—a swift dark thought That moveless hp!— thou dost not slumbers- 
Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it passed, | speak. 



"On thy breast 
-and that cold 



Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! — no sound — no breath! 
What hath come thus between our spirits'? — Death! 
Death] — I but dream— 1 dream!" — and there she 

stood, 
A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her fonn sustained by that dark stem alone, 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold; 
When from the grass her dimmed eye caught a 

gleam — 
'Twas where a sword lay shivered by the stream,^ 
Her brother's sword! — she knew it; and she knew 



And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook 

Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once 

more. 
She stilled her heart to listen,— all was o'er ; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 

That night Imelda's voice was in the song, 

Lovely it floated through the festive throng. 

Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night 

Her eye looked starry in its dazzling light. 

And her cheek crlowed with beauty's flushing , 'Twas with a venomed point that weapon slew! 

dyes Wo for young love! But love is strong. There 

Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies, came 

A burnino-, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame, 
Followed her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze, There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 

She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round. 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, aiid pressed 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast, 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! — 
So the moon saw them last. 

The morn came singing 
Through the green forest of the Appenines, 
With all her joyous birds their free flight swinging, 

And steps and voices out among the vines. 
What found that day-spring here? Two fair forms 

laid 
Like sculptured sleepers ; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave. 
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the 

grave 1 
Could it be so indeed 1 That radiant girl. 
Decked as for bridal hours! — long braids of pearl 
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 
As tears might shine, with melancholy light; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining; 
And her pale graceful arms — how sadly bright! 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying. 
And round her marble brovv^ red roses dying. — 
But she died first! — the violet's hue had spread 
O'er her sweet eye-lids with repose oppressed, 
She had bowed heavily her gentle head, 

And, on the youth's hushed bosom, sunk to resl. 
So slept they well! — the poison's work was done; 
Love with true heart had striven — but Death had 
won. 



And marvelled at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue. 
With something of dim fear; and in that glance 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest. 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance. 

Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest. 
Comes not umnasked. Howe'er this were, the 

time 
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Alike: and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft, 
When trembling stars looked silvery in their wane. 
And heavy flowers, yet slumbered, once again 
There stole a footstep, fleet, and Ught, and lone. 
Through the dim cedar shade; the step of one 
That started at a leaf, of one that fled. 
Of one that panted with some secret dread : — 
What did Imelda therel She sought the scene 
Where love so late with youth and hope had 

been; 
Bodings were on her soul — a shuddering thrill 
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's 

rill 
Met her with melody— sweet sounds and low; 
We hear them yet, ^hey live along its flow — 
rier voice is music lost, ! The fountain-side 
She gained — the w.*ve flashed forth — 't was darkly 

dyed 
K'en as f>orn wairior-hearts ; and on its edge, 
Ainids*' tr.e fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts 
4*60 



L 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



211 



EDITH, 

A TALE OF THE WOODS.* 



Du Hcilige! rufe dein Kind zuriick! 
Ich babe genossen das ifdische Gliick, 
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. 

Wallenstein. 



The woods — oh ! solemn are the boundless woods 

Of the great Western World, when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines ; 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there 

sate 
One young and fair; and oh! how desolate! 
But undismayed; while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darkened with the night. 
Alone she sate : though many lay around, 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground. 
Were severed from her need and from her wo, 

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with tlie history of their lot, 
rjnto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 

Which filled her soul was strong to cast out fear. 
And by its might upborne all else above. 

She shrank not — marked not that the dead were 
near. 
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled. 

While heavily she felt h'is life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound, 
ifet hoped, still hoped ! — Oh ! from such hope how 
long 

Affection wooes the whispers that deceive. 
E'en when the pressure of dismay grows strong. 

And we, tliat weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bowed she there, 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Filled all her soul. Now poured the moonlight 

down, 
Vcining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, 
And fire-fli&j, kindhng up the leafy-place, 
Cast litful radiance o'er the warrior's face, 



• Founded on incideno related in an American work, 

•'Sketches of Connecticut." 



Whereby she caught its changes : to her eye, 
The eye that faded looked through gathering 
haze. 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony, 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze. 
When voice was not: that fond sad meaning pass- 
ed— 
She knew the fulness of her wo at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard, — and mute she lay, 
And cold; yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and DeathJ 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 
Many and sad I but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew; 
The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds 

played. 
Bright-coloured birds with splendour crossed the 

shade. 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 
From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings 
Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke 
Into young life and joy all happy thing's. 
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance. 
The widowed Edith: fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flashed o'er her spirit, ev'n as memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that 

slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 't were for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now,^ 
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild. 

By the red hunter'.s fire: an aged chief. 
Whose home looked sad — for therein played no 
child- 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there, 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 
Or touched with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung. 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung, 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 
And leaning on his bow. 

And life returned, 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead, 

To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learnec 
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore 
The chastened grief that humbly can adore. 
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair. 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was; or a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too sooo 



•212 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go, 
And ever from that time her fading mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low. 
Had haunted their dim years; but Edith's face 
Now looked in holy sweetness from her place, 
And they again seemed parents. Oh ! the joy ! 
The rich, deep blessedness — though earth's alloy. 
Fear, that still bodes, be there — of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, 
On something all its own ! — that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain, 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again. 
When, like the sunshine, freed. — And gentle 

cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus : — her spirit dwelt, the while. 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ;— yet still she prayed, 
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knev? 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warned her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Linked unto moments when the heart was stirred, 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn. 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hushed and 

dim. 
By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 
All eloquent with child-like piety. 
By the still beauty of her life, she strove 
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 
Poured out on her so freely. — Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds: by slow degrees 
Light followed on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 
And lets the sunbeam through:— her voice was 

made 
Ev'n such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified. 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led. 
Until their prayers were one. When morning 

spread 
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touched into golden bronze the cypress-bough, 
And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Wakened the wilderness, their prayers were one, 
■ Now might she pass in hope, her work was done. 
And ene was passing from the woods away; 
The oroken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light, 



But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests had gone by. 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, 
Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 
Amidst the pines ; and now a softer green 
Fringed their dark boughs ; for spring again had 

come. 
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely tilings, when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake; 
Is it not brighter then, in that far chme 
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful 

time, 
U here such glory dwell with passing blooms. 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs'? 
So thought the dying one. 'T was early day, 
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play, 
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin- 
door, 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore; 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
" My father !" — to the gray-haired chief she spoke— 
"Know'st thou that I depart?' — "I know, I 

know," 
He answered mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thy beloved, my daughter !" — " Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother!" with meek smiles once 

more 
She murmured in low tones; " one happy lot 
Awaits, us, friends! upon the better shore; 
For we have prayed together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust. 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own. 
Under the cedar-shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be. 
And the dead parents, hsping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learned, — the Saviour's 

prayer 
Which now ye know, — and I shall meet you 

there. 
Father, and gentle mother ! — ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." — From the matron's eye, 
Dropped tears, her sole and passionate reply; 
But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep. 
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep. 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow. 
And mantling up his stately head in wo, 
" Thou 'rt passing hence," he sang, that warri'jT 

old. 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters rolled. 

" Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side, 
And the hunter's hearth awav • 



RECORDS OP WOMAN. 



!2H 



Fur the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 
Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 

Thou 'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear; 
The corn-montli's golden hours will come, 

But they shall not find thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song hke thine. 

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

TeUing of winter gone. 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see 

No fear of parting more. 

The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 

And the wind's wild meanings by, 
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget. 

Midst flowers — not such as die. 

The shadow from thy brow shall melt, 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 

Whsn thou, its light, art fled; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land !" 

The song had ceased — the listeners caught no 

breath, 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN CITY.* 



What defep wounds ever dosed v^rithout a scar t 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it. 

dulde Harold. 



Royal in splendour went down the day 
On the plain where an Indian city lay. 



' From a tale in Forbes' Oriental Mcmoira 



With its crown of domes o'er the forest higli, 

Red as if fused in the burning sky, 

And its deep groves pierced by the rays which niada 

A bright stream's way through each long arcade, 

Till the pillared vaults of the Banian stood, 

Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood, 

And the plantain glittered with leaves of gold, 

As a tree midst the genii-gardens old. 

And the cypress lifted a blazing sjiire, 

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fir« 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, 

Broken alone by the lotus-flowers. 

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid. 

With the water-vase from the palmy shade, 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps to the tanks below ; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard. 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirred ; 

And a murmur, thrilling the scented air. 

Told where the Bramin bowed in prayer. 

There wandered a noble Moslem boy 
Through the scene of beauty in breathless jay ; 
He gazed where the stately city rose 
Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose ; 
He turned where birds through the gorgeous gloom 
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume ; 
He tracked the brink of the shinintr lake 
By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake. 
Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound 
To the very heart of the holy-ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn from the sun and wind. 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west 
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast. 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep, 
Seemed made for the swimmer's joyous leap. 
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase, 
For all free things of the wild-wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky, 
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye. 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave. 
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave 
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white, 
O'er the glossy leaves in his young delight, 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear- 
Alas I he dreamt not that fate wns near 

His mother looked from her tent the while, 
O'er heaven and eartn witn a quiet smile ; 



214 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 

Had stayed the march of her pilgrim-train, 

Cahnly to hnger a few brief hours. 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers; 

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall, 

The red gold of sunset — she loved them all. 

II. 

The moon rose clear in the splendour given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven ; 
The boy from the high-arched woods came back — 
Oh ! what had he met in his lonely track 1 
Theserpent'sglance, through the long reeds bright 7 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might 7 
No ! — yet as one by a conflict worn. 
With his graceful hair all soiled and torn. 
And a gloom on the lids of his darkened eye. 
And a gash on his bosom — he came to die ! 
He looked for the face to his young heart sweet. 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 

" Speak to me I — whence doth the swift blood run 1 

What hath befallen thee, my child, my son 1" 

The mist of death on his brow lay pale, 

But his voice just lingered to breathe the tale. 

Murmuring faintlv of wrongs and scorn, 

And wounds from the children of Brahma born : 

Tnis was the doom for a Moslem found 

With foot profane on their holy ground. 

This was for sullying the pure waves free 

Unto them alone — 't was their God's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look — 

The mother shrieked not then, nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood, 

Rending her mantle to staunch its flood ; 

But it rushed like a river which none may stay, 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain. 

Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain. 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold, 

Clasped to our bosoms, its mortal mould, 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment — the soul from the face had passed ! 

Are there no words for that common wo 1 
— Ask of the thousands, its depth that know ! 
The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest, 
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast ; 
He had stood, when she sorrowed, beside her knee. 
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee; 
He had kissed from her cheek the widow's tears. 
With the loving lip of his infant years; 
He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring- 
day — 
Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 
Mw-dcred ! — Alas ! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell ! 



She bowed down mutely o'er her dead — 
They that stood round her watched in dread ; 
They watched — she knew not they were by 
Her soul sat veiled in its agony. 
On the silent lip she pressed no kiss, 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this; 
She shed no tear as her face bent low, 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow ; 
She looked but into the half-shut eye. 
With a gaze that found there no reply. 
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight, 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might ! 

And what deep change, what work of power, 

Was wrought on her secret soul that b'^ur? 

How rose the lonely one? — She rose 

Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 

And proudly flung from her face the veil. 

And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 

And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, 

With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood. 

Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high, 

With a close and rigid grasp she pressed 

The blood-stained robe to her heaving breast, 

And said — "Not yet — not yet I weep. 

Nor yet my spirit shall sink or sleep. 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent. 

Be piled for its victim's monument 

— Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple-gates once more." 

And away in the train of death she turned, 
The strength of her step was the heart that burned: 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled. 
As the mother passed with her slaughtered child. 

III. 

Hark ! a T^ild sound of the desert's horn 
Through *he woods round the Indian city borne, 
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar — 
War ! 't is the gathering of Moslem war! 
The Bramin looked from the leaguered towers — 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers ; 
And the I ake that flash'd throu^rh the plantein shade 
As the light of the lances along it played; 
And the canes that shook as if winds wer* h^h, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept W ■ 
And the camp as it lay, liice a billowy sea, 
Wide round the sheltering Banian tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart — 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
— Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crushed affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had! paused. 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast 



RECORDS OF WOMAN, 



'215 



llierc had been words from her pale lips poured. 
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, 
And the dark chief of Araby grasped his spear, 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 
And a vow was recorded that doomed its fall. 
Back with the dust of her son she came. 
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame; 
She came in the might of a queenly foe. 
Banner, and javehn, and bended bow; 
But a deeper power on her forehead sate — 
There sought the warrior his star of fate; 
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 
Was hailed as a spirit and a sign, 
And the feintest tone from her lip was caught. 
As a Sybil's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory!— the gifl; of grief. 
That lights up vengeance to find relief. 
Transient and faithless ! — it can not fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie, 
That haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turned from her sad renown. 
As a king in death might reject his crown ; 
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way— 
She witliered faster from day to day. 
All the proud sounds of that bannered plain. 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain: 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust ne'er for such conflicts born, 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride. 

As on that eve when the fair boy died ; 

She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 

O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell ; 

She spoke, and her voice in its dying tone 

Had an echo of feelings that long seemed flown. 

She murmured a low sweet cradle song, 

Strange midst the din of a warrior throng, 

A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 

Had glowed on her breast in its slumber meek ; 

But something which breathed from that mournful 

strain 
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again. 
And starting as if from a dream, she cried — 
" Give liiin proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, 
When the temples are fallen, make there our 

grave." 

And the temples fell, though the spirit passed. 
That stayed not for victory's voice at last ; 
W hen the day was won for the martyr-dead, 
For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed. 



Through the gates of the vanquished the Tartar 

steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 
Free swept the flame through the idol-fanes, 
And the streams glowed red, as from warrior-vei!}s 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay 
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, 
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade, 
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were lefl;, 
Like fallen trees by the lightnmg cleft ; 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair, 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung — 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung 1 



THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE. 



Tliere is but one place in the world. 

Thither wliere he lies buried ! 
******** 
There, there is all that siill remains of him, 
Tliat single spot is the whole earth to me. 

Coleridge's Wallenstein. 

Alas! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert. — Cliildc Harold. 



There went a warrior's funeral through the night, 
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead. 
Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof's tread 
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, 
As chieftains passed ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low 

shiver. 
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, 

Wore man's mute anguish sternly; — but of ojie 
Oh I who shall speak? What words hh brow un- 
vein 

A father following to the grave his son ! 
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow. 

Through the wood-shadows moved the knrghtly 
train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low. 

Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slaiu, 
Stretched by its broken lance. They reached ths 
lone 

Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into tiiich archways, as to vault the tomb. 



216 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Stal,"!}? they trod the hollow ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shuddering through the pile, 
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument, 
When dust to dust was given : — and Aymer slept. 

Beneath the drooping banners of his hne. 
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine: 
So the sad rite was closed. — The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck, that lordly grave, 
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield. — Then all was done, 
All still, around the dead. — His name was heard 
Perchance when wine-cups flowed, and hearts 
were stirred 

By some old song, or tale of battle won. 
Told round the hearth : but in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had 

ceased 
Mingled with theirs. — Ev'n thus life's rushing 

tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side : 
Alas! to think of this! — the heart's void place 

Filled up so soon! — so like a summer-cloud. 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace ! — 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten! — not of all! — the sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile. 
And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness ly- 
ing 

Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep, 
And all the music with that young voice dying. 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle — these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. — Day by day, 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, 
Through the dim fane soft summer-odours breath- 
ing. 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, 
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet there 
Might speak of love — a secret love and lowly, 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair, 
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy. 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells. 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, 
To blush through every season 1 — Blight and chill 
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still, 



For years, those gorgeous cotonals renewed. 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, 
Even through mid-winter, filled the solitude 

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devoted ness! 

One spring-morn rose. 
And found, within that tomb's proud shadow 
laid — 
Oh ! not as midst the vineyards, to repose 
From the fierce noon — a dark-haired peasant 
maid: 
Who could reveal her story 1 — That still face 
Had once been fair; for on the clear arched 
brow. 
And the curved lip, there lingered yet such grace 
As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye — 
For death was on its lids — fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimmed the slight form all wasted, as by care. 
Whence came that early blight? — Her kindred's 

place 
Was not amidst the high De Couci race; 
Yet there her shrine had been 1 — She grasped a 

wreath — 
The tomb's last garland ! — This was love in death 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG. 

An Indian woman, driven to despair by her hus- 
band's desertion of her for another wife, entered a 
canoe with her children, and rowed it down the 
Mississippi toward a cataract. Her voice was 
heard from the shore singing a mournful death- 
song, until overpowered by the sound of the wa- 
ters in which she perished. The tale is related in 
Long's Expedition to the source of St Peter's Ri- 
ver. 



Non, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur bris6. D faut que je 
retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de Pair. 
Bride of Messina, 
Translated by Madame De Stael. 

Let not my cliild be a girl, for very sad is the life of a wo- 
man. The Prairie. 



Down a broad river of the western wilds. 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed 
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. — Yet withiii 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood : upoii her Indian brow 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



217 



Sat a s'range gladness, ami her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She pressed her child, 
In its hrii,rht slumber, to lier beating heart, 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awliile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear, 
Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death. 

Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream 

and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, (5) roll ! and bear our 

lives with thee ! 
The weary bird that storms have tossed, would 

seek tlie sunshine's calm, 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to 

the woods of balm. 

Roll on ! — my warrior's eye hath looked upon ano- 
ther's face. 

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a 
moonbeam's trace ; 

My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper 
to his dream, 

He flings away the broken reed — roll swifter yet, 
thou stream ! 

The voice that spoke of other days is hushed with- 
in his breast, 

But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let 
me rest ; 

ft sings a low and mournful song of gladness that 
is gone, 

1 can not live without that light — Father of waves ! 
roll on ! 

Will he not miss the bounding step that met him 
from the chase 1 

The heart of love that made his home an ever sun- 
ny place? 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and 
decked his couch of yore 7 — 

He will not ! — roll, dark foaming stream, on to the 
better shore ! 

Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright 
land must flow, 

Whose waters from my soul may have the memo- 
ry of this wo ; 

Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 
breatii may waft away 

The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the 
day. 

And thou, my babe ! though born, like me, for 

woman's weary lot, 
Smile I — to that wasting of the heart, my own ! I 

leave thee not ; 
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love 

away, 
Thy mother bears thee far, young Fawn! from 

sorrow and decay. 
Q 21 



She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none 

are heard to weep. 
And where th' unkind one hath no power agaui 

to trouble sleep ; 
And where the soul shall find its youth, aswaken- 

ing from a dream, — 
One moment, and that realm is ours — On, on, dark 

rolling stream ! 



JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS. 

Jeanne d'Arc avait eu la joie de voir a Chalons 
quelques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus in- 
effable encore I'attendait a Rheims, au sein de son 
triomphe: Jacques d'Arc, son pere y se trouva, 
aussitot que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent 
entrees ; et comme les deuK freres de notre Hferoinc^ 
I'avaicnt accompagnes, elle se vit, pour un instant 
au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un pere 
vertueux. — Vie de Jeanne d'Arc. 



Thou hast a charmnd cup, O Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high. 
And seems to lift this earth-born frame 

Above mortality : 
Away ! to me — a woman — ^bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring. 



That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
When peal on peal ot mighty music rolled 
Forth from her thronged cathedral ; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound. 
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listened at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within 1 — within, the light 
Through the rich gloom of pictured windows 
flowing, 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight. 

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bow- 
ing 
In martial vassalage ! — while midst that ring, 
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the 

hymn 
Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 
As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproached, beside the altar-stone. 
With the white banner, forth like sunshine stream- 
ing, 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance 

gleaning. 

Silent and radiant stood 1 — the helm was raised, 
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed. 

Intensely worshipping: — a still, clear face, 
Youthful, but brightly solemn! — Woman's cheel 
And brow were there, in I'eeo devotion neek. 



215 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



1i et glorified with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seemed bending o'er her votaress. — That gjlight 

form! 
Was that the leader through the battle-storm 1 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye. 
Guided the warrior where the swords flashed 

highl 
'T was so, even so! — and thou, the shepherd's 

child, 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour. 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power. 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ; 
And beautiful with joy and with renown, 
' «.ift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransomed for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 
And bid the echoes of the tombs awaken. 

And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing 
sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies. 

Daughter of victory ! — a triumphant strain, 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gushed through the portals of the antique fane, 
And forth she came. — Then rose a nation's 

sound — 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man give to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power 1 — far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flows forth! — The shouts that 

filled 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were stilled 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown. 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. — "Joanne! — 
Who spoke 
Like those whose childhood with her childhood 
grew 
Under one roof 1 — " Joanne !" — that murmur 
broke 
With sounds of weeping forth ! — She turned — 
she knew 
Beside her, marked from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair. 
The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flashed proudly ; and the boy 
The voungesl-born, that ever loved her best; 
" Father! and ye, my brothers!" — On the breast 
Of that giay sire she sank — and swiftly back, 
Ev'nin an instant, to their native track 
ricr free thoughts flowed. — She saw the pomp no 

more — 
The plumes, the banners :- to her cabin-door, 



And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade,(6) 
Where her young sisters by her side had played, 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turned. — The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves hun^' 

Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt. 
Winning her back to nature. — She unbound 

The helm of many battles from her head, 
And, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the 
ground. 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — 
"Bless me, my father, bless me! and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen-tree, 
Let me return !" 

Oh! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! — too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price. 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home with all it loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



PAULINE. 



To die for what we love ! — Oh ! there is power 

In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this; 

It is to live without the vanished light 

That strength is needed. 

Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno 
Bella vita nnoriaj il fiore e'l verde. 

Tasso. 



Along the star-lit Seine went music swelling, 
Till the air thrilled with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling 

For cares or stricken hearts were found on 
earth ; 

And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing feet. 

For in a palace of the land that night. 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were 
hung, 

And from the painted walls a stream of light 
On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung : 

But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 

Was one, the lady from the Danube-side.(7) 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! — though now no more 
Her clear eye flashed with youth's all tameless 
glee, 

Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, 
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see; 

A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught- 

Tlie blending of deep love and matron thought. 



Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such cahii joy as fills a iuooii]i;jht sky. 

Sate on her brow beneath its graceful hair, 
As her young daughter in the dance went by, 

With the fleet step of one that yet hath Icnown 

Smiles and liind voices in this world alone. 

Lurked there no secret boding in her breast 1 
Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh ? 

Such oft awake when most the lieart seems blest 
Midst the l.ght laughter of festivity : 

Whence come those tones! — Alas! enough we 
know, 

To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying 
In fairy rings around the echoing halH 

Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing, 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call? 

Silence ! — the minstrels pause — and hark ! a sound, 

A strange quick rustling which their notes had 
drowned ! 

And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking — 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed! 

From the gay dream of revelry awaking, 

One moment holds them still in breathless dread; 

The wild fierce lustre grows — then bursts a cry — 

Fire ! through the hall and round it gathering — fly ! 

And forth they rush — as chased by sword and 
spear — ■ 
To the green coverts of the garden-bowers ; 
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, 

Startling the birds and trampling down the 
flowers : 
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she, Pauline? — the hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along — 
Till now the threshold of that death is past, 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies. 

Calling her child — but no sweet voice replies. 

"Bertha! where art thou'' — Speak, oh! speak, 
my own!" 
Alas ! unconscious of her pangs the while. 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone. 

Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile; 
A young briglit form, decked gloriously for death. 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath ! 

But oh! thy strength, deep love! — there is no power 
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, 

Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, 
And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave ; 

Back, back she rushes through a host combined — 

Mighty is anguish, with affection twined! 



And what bold step may follow, midst the roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise? 

None ! — Courage there stood still — and never more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes! 

Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell ? 

And died they heart to heart? — Oh! who can tell ] 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 
On tliat sad palace, midst its pleasure-shades ; 

Its painted roofs had sunk — yet black with smoke 
And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 

But yester-eve their shafts with wreaths were 
bound! — 

Now lay the scene one shrivelled scroll around. 

And bore the ruins no recording trace 

Of all that woman's heart had dared and done ] 

Yes! there were gems to mark its mortal place. 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone! 

Those had the mother on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest. 

And they were all ! — the tender and the true 
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 

Flallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew, 
To deep, lone, chastened thoughts of grief and 
love. 

Oh ! we have need of patient faith below, 

To clear away the mysteries of such wo ! 



JUANA. 



Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon 
the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of 
Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, 
had his body laid upon a bed of state in a magni- 
ficent dress, and being possessed with the idea that 
it would revive, watched it for a length of time in- 
cessantly, waiting for the moment of returning 
life. 



It Is but dust thou look'st tipon. Tliis love, 
This wilJ and passionate idolatry, 
Wliat doth it in the shadow of the gravel 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish. 



The night-wind shook the tapestry round an an- 
cient palace-room, 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through th? 
gorgeous gloom. 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitfliJ gleam* 
and red. 

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watcJ> 
ing by the dead. 



S20 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious; "And thou wilt smile — my own, my own, shal^ 

still to see, I he the sunny smile, 

Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me 



heart and step were free ; 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

majestic lay. 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watched by the 
cold slumberer's side. 

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her 
garb no pride ; 

Only her full impassioned eyes as o'er that clay 
she bent, 

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplen- 
dence blent. 

And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like 

shadows of a cloud, ^ 
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke 

aloud ; 
She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, 

" Thou yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved 

one ! for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew it 

could not be ; 
Fan-est and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of 

death for thee ? 
They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy 

gallant form around. 
But I forbade — and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crowned ! 

' With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their co- 
ronal beneath. 

And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said that 
this was death 1 

Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round 
thee long. 

But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimmed 
and strong. 

" I know thou hast not lov^d me yet ; I am not 
fair like thee. 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round 
a Hght of glee ! 

A frail and drooping form is mine — a cold unsmil- 
ing cheek, 

(.>h ! ^ have but a woman's heart, wherewith ihy 
heart to seek. 

" But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord ! and 

hear'st how I have kept 
A loneiy vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed and 

wept ; 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have past, 
Hnrely that humble, patient love, must win back 

'nave at last ! 



erewhiie ! 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary sou.' 

shall pine — 
Oh ! yeai-sof hope deferred were paid by one fond 

glance of thine ! 

" Tiiou 'It meet me in that radiant look when thou 

comest from the chase, 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er 

thy face ! 
Thou 'It reck no more though beauty's gift mine 

aspect may not bless ; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give 

me loveliness. 

" But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once 

more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leaped, the music of 

thy voice : 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone, 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes may all be 

mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured forth 

day by day. 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 

soul found way. 
Until the shadows of the grave hath swept o'e; 

every grace. 
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely 

form and face. 

And slo^vly broke the fearful truth upon the watch- 
er's breast, 

And they bore away the royal dead with requiems 
to his rest, 

With banners and with knightly plumes aU wav- 
ing in the wind — 

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 
despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 



A fearfu! gift upon liiy hean is laid, 
Woman ! — a power to sufler and to love, 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 



Wii.DLY and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke: — 

" Sing vis a death-song, for thine hour is come," — 
So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 

Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair -haired youth of England stood. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



221 



Like a king's son; though f'lom his cheek had 
flown 

The manUing crimson of the island-blood, 
And his pressed lips looked marble. — Fiercely 

bright, 
And liigh around him, blazed the fires of night, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro. 
As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face: — But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befel. 
Known but to heaven that hour"? — Perchance a 

thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band, 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand. 
Where the laburnum drooped ; or haply binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth. 
Gathering with braided hair, around the hearth 
Where sat their mother; — and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet srnile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! — Perchance the prayer 
Learned at her knee came back on his despair; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Good^night," might breathe from boy- 
hood gone ! — 
He started and looked up : — thick cypress boughs 

Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly 
red 
[n the broad stormy firelight; — savage brows. 

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er- 
spread, 
Crirt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Looked through the branches as through dungeon 

bars. 
Shedding no hope. — He knew, he felt his doom — 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England ! — Idle fear! 
Would the winds tell it1 — Who might dream or 

hear 
The secret of the forests 1 — To the stake 

They bound him; and that proud young soldier 
strove 
His father's sfurit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence! He, the love 
Of many hearts! — the fondly reared, — the fair. 
Gladdening ail eyes to see I — And fettered there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to liglit it, in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God.— Hush ! hark!— a cry 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, — 
A step hath pierced the ring ! — Wiio dares intrude 

On tlie dark hunters in their vengeful mood? 

A girl — a j'ouiig slight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green Savannas an<l the leafy wild, 
Springing unmarked till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower; 
21* 



Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — 
For hers had mourned a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 
I Intil the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervour swayed, 
Ev'n to the stake she rushed, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 
Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye 
And clear-toned voice that said, " He shall not 
die !" 

" He shall not die !" — the gloomy forest thrilled 
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 

On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were 
stilled. 
Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 

They gazed, — their dark souls bowed before the 
maid, 

She of the dancing step in wood and glade! 

And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue, 

As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, 

Something o'ermastered them from that young 
mien — 

Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen; 

And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token 

That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's 

breath : 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death 
They quenched the brand beneath the cypres* 

tree; 
" Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art 

free I" 



COSTANZA. 



-Art thou then desolated 



Of friends, of hopes forsaken'.' — Come to me! 

I am tliine own.— Have trusted hearts proved falseT 

Flatterers deceived thee'! Wanderer come to me ! 

Why didst thou ever leave me ] Know t thou all 

I would have home, and called it joy to h^ar. 

For thy sake'! Know'st thou that thy voicf had powei 

To shake me with a thrill of happiness 

By one kind tone?— to fill mine eyes with t^ars 

Of yearning love? And thou— oh ! thou dii t throw 

That cruslied affection hack upon my heart ; — 

Yet come to me ! — it died not. 

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunsri fell 
Through the stained window of her lone'v cell 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow, 
While o'pr her long hair's flowing jet if threw 
Bright waves of gold — the autumn forest's hue-- 
Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
Bv painting's touch around some holy head 



35& 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervour lived 1 And yet what wo, 
Lay liKc some buried thing, till seen below 
The glassy tide ! Oh ! he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chastened heart to feul, 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years. 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known, 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and 

made 
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade. 
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim. 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, Uke sounds in 

dreams. 
Music for weary hearts ! Midst leaves and flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers. 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed. 
Came, and brought hope; while scarce of mortal birth 
He deemed the pale fair form, that held on earth 
Communion but with grief. 

Ere long a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling 
well. 
And a sweet voice, of rich, yet mournful tone, 
Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there 
( ^ostanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 't was prayer's own hour. That voice 

again 
Through the dim fohage sent its heavenly strain. 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood 
Id day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, 
Other and wider sounds m tumult met 
The floating song. Strange sounds! — the trum- 
pet's peal, 
Made hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel. 
The rallying war-cry. — In the mountain-pass, 
There had been combat : blood was on the grass, 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying, 
And the pine-branches crashed before the flying. 

And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza's home : — there entered hurrying feet. 
Dark looks of shame and sorrow ; mail-clad men. 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen. 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore 
A wounded warrior in : the rocky floor 
Jave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
T'Le sweet saint's prayers to heal him ; then for 

flight. 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night, 



Sped breathlessly again. — They passed — but he, 
The stateliest of a host — alas ! to see 
What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep 
Till joy, for very fulness, turned to weep 
Thus changed ! — a fearful thing ! His golden cresv 
Was shivered, and the bright scarf on his breast- 
Some costly love-gift — rent: — but what of these 1 
There were the clustering raven-locks — the breeze 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them — steeped in bloody show- 
ers 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek theyhung! theeye's dark ray — 
Where was itl — and the lips! — they gasped apart, 
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, 
Still proudly beautiful ! but that white hue — 
Was it not death's? — that stillness — that cold dew 
On the scarred forehead 1 No! his spirit broke 
From its deep tratice ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay, 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken. 
The haughty chief of thousands — the forsaken 
Of all save one ! — Skc fled not. Day by day — 
Such hours are woman's birthright — she, unknown, 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone ; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourned the strong man's 

raving. 
He felt them not, nor marked the light veiled form 
StiU hovering nigh; yet sometimes, when that 
storm 

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing. 
Would sooth him with sweet aves, gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebbed from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleams 
Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams, 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head. 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed, 
He murmured forth, "Where am 17 What soft 

strain 
Passed, like a breeze, across my burning brainl 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of Hfe's flrst music, and a thought of one — 
Where is she nowl and where the gauds of pride 
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side? 
All lost ! — and this is death ! — I can not die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ! 
Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? 
My first, my holiest love! — her broken heart 
Lies low, and I — unpardoned I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale, 
And stood before him with a smile— oh ! ne'er 
Did aucrht that smiled so much of sadness wear— 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



223 



And said, " Cesario ! look on nie ; I live 
To sa}' m}' heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust 
As should be Heaven's alone — and Heaven is just! 
I bless thee — be at peace 1" 

But o'er his frame 
Too fast the strong tide rushed — the sudden 

shame, 
The joy, th' amaze! — he bowed his head — it fell 
On the wronged bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love still perfect, gave him refuge there, — 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. 



MADELINE. 

A DOMESTIC TALE.* 



VVlio should it be 1 — Where shoiildst thou look for kindness 1 
When we are sick where can we turn for succour, 
Wlien we are wretched where can we complain ; 
And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 
With such siure confidence as to a mother? 

Joanna Baillie. 

"My child, my child, thou leav'st me! — I shall 

hear 
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear 
With its first utterance ; I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 
And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close, 
And thy " Good-night" at parting for repose. 
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee. 
My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea. 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of 

France, 
Fading to air. — Yet blessings with thee go! * 
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's wo 
From thy young heart be far! — And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be with me. — Now farewell, farewell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
When thou wort pillowed there, and wont to raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : — these moments are gone 

by, 

Thou too must go, my flower! — Yet with thee 
dwell 

The peace of God! — One, one more gaze — fare- 
well!" 

This was a mother's parting with her child, ' 

A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune smiled 

• Originallv oublished in the Literary Souvenir for 1828. 



And wooed her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home ; yet there, with fond delaj 
She lingered on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird through trellised rose-leavos 

float. 
And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, 
Whilst old remembrances, that long iiad slept, 
Gushed o'er her soul, and many a vanished day, 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep. 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
With a calmed heart, young Madeline ere long 
Poured forth her own sweet solemn vesper-sonc, 
Breathing of home : through stillness heard afar 
And duly rising with the first pale star. 
That voice was on the watrers; till at last 
The sounding ocean-solitudes were passed, 
And the bright land was reached, the youthful 

world 
That glows along the West: the sails were furled 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Looked on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. — Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface. 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with 

tears. 
That home was darkened soon : the summer breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas, 
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn! 
To her, that widowed in her marriage-morn. 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him. 

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side. 
By the close veil of misery ! — Oh ! but ill. 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the youncr 
high heart 

Bears its first blow! — it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach — to suffer and be still. 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and through the future 

hours 
To send no busy dream! — She had not learned 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turned, 
In weariness from life: then came th' unrest. 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, 
The haunting sounds of voices far away, 
And household steps; until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing strcarns 
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was 

fraught. 
To strangers'? — Oh! could strangers raise ih 

head 
Gently as hcvs was laised? — did strangers stird 



i24 



MRS. HEMANS' WORjvd. 



The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow 1 
Something was there, that through the lingering 

night 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light, 
Something that faints not thro' the day's distress, 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness; 
Love, true and perfect love ! — Whence came that 

power, 
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower 1 
Whence"? who can ask"? the wild delirium passed, 
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last 
Into her mother^s face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue. 
The kind sweet smile of old ! — and had she come, 
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home, 
To save her child 1 — E'en so — nor yet in vain : 
In that young heart a light sprung up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seemed this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet mother, gentlest mother ! can it bel'' 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee"? 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore. 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more." 



THE aUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 

" This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, 
near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I 
came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white 
Doric temple. I might, and should have deemed 
it a mere adornment offhe grounds, but the cypress 
find the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. 
Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, 
and the outline of the human form was plainly 
visible beneath its folds. The person with me re- 
verently turned it back, and displayed the statue 
of hisGlueen. It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said 
to be a perfect resemblance — not as in death, but 
when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing 
can be more calm and kind than the expression of 
her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; 
the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the re- 
pose of life. Here the King brings her childrt-n 

annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These 
hang in withered mournfulness above this living 
image of theii departed mother. — Sherber's Notes 
and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany. 



in sweet pride upon that insult keen 

Slie smiled ; then drooping mute and broken-hearted. 

To the cold coiBfort of the grave departed. — Milman. 

tT stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soil shadows o'er its marble sweep, 

From cypress-branches thrown ; 



While silently around it spread, 
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead , 

And what within is richly shrined? 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely in perfect rest rechned, 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face, 

The mantle's quiet flow. 
The gentle, yet majestic grace. 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene of tender gloom. 
With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A kingly emblem — nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought : 
She whose high heart finds rest below^ 
Was royal in her birth and wo. 

There are pale garlands hung adove 

Of dying scent and hue ; — 
She was a mother — in her luve 

How sorrowfully true ! 
Oh ! hallowed long be evevy leaf, 
The record of her children's grief! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 

Of olden glory spoiled, 
The standard of their sires bore down, 

The shield's bright blazon soiled: 
She met the tempest meekiy brave, 
Then turned, o'erwearied, to the grave. 

She slumbered ; but it came — it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour. 
With the glad shout, and signal-flame, 
« Sent on from tower to tower ! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved — 
'T was her's, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep. 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial poured 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 

And the crowned eagle spread again 
His pinion to the sun ; 

And the strong land shook ofll' its chain- 
So was the triumph won ! 

But wo for earth, where sorrow's tone 

Still blends with victory's ! — She was gone !♦ 



Ori^nally published in the Monthly Magazine 



=J 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



22b 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 

On the road side between Penrith and Appleby, 
stands a small pillar, with this inscription : — " This 
pillar was erected in the year 105(5, by Ann, 
Countess Dowager of Pembroke, lor a memorial 
of her last parting, in this place, with her good and 
pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of 
Cumberland, on the 2d April, IG16. — See No esto 
the " Pleasures of Memory." 



HiBt thou, through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 

Each mountain-scene, masnificently rude, 

Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered 

That modest stone, by pious Pembroke reared. 

Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 

The silent sorrows of a pai ting hour J 

Rogers, 

Mother and child ! whose blending tears 
Have sanctified the place, 
■ Where, to the love of many years, 
Was given one last embrace ; 
Oh ! ye have shrined a spell of power, 
Deep in your record of that hour ! 

A spell to waken solemn lliought, 

A still, small under-tone. 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source. 
Though long untroubled — of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 
Which marks your parting spot, 

Who but a mother's love hath known, 
The one love changing notl 

Alas ! and haply learned its worth 

First with the sound of " Earth to earth?" 

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou, 
O'er whose bright, honoured head, 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow. 
E'en here were fondly sited. 

Thou from the passion of thy grief. 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 

For oh I though painful be th' excess, 
The might wherewith it swells, 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling, dwells; 

And tiiou hudst not, by wrong or pride, 

Poisoned the free and healthful ti(' 



r pri 
i(le. 



But didst thou meet the face no more, 
Which thy young heart first knew? 

And all — was ;dl in this world o'er. 
With tics thus close and true"? 

It was I — On earth no other eye 

Could ijive thee back thine infancy. 



No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where deep within thy breast. 

The sounds and dreams of otiier days, 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladdening, like the breath of spring. 

Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps. 
While on thy name midst wood and hilJ, 

The quiet sunshine sleeps. 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead, 
Think of the love embodied there. 

As of a vision fled? 
A perished thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one eartJily hour? 

Not so! — I will not bow nie so 
To thou^^hts that breathe despair.' 

A loftier faith we need below, 
Life's farewell words to bear. 

Mother and child ! — Your tears are past - 

Surely youv hearts have met at last ! 



THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.^ 

" Ne me plaignez pas — si vous saviez 
Combien de peines cti tombeau m'a epargn6es ." 

I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ; — 
Spring odours breathed around. 

And music, in the river-wave. 
Passed with a lulling sound. 

All happy things that love the sun 
In the bright air glanced by 

And a glad murmur seemed to run 
Through the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough 
That fringed the ruins near; 

Young voices were abroad — but thou 
Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

And mournful grew my heart for theu. 
Thou in whose woman's mind 

The ray that brightens earth and sea, 
The liijht of sons was siirined. 



Extrinsic interest has lately altacliod to the fine scenery 
of Woo<lsiork, near Kilkenny, on account of iis huvins been 
the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one 
of many in the church-yard of the vilbige. The river runs 
amomhly by. The ruins of an ancient ahhey that have been 
partially convened inioa church, revcronily linnw their man- 
tle of tender shadow over it, — Tales by tlis O'Uara F\im>lif- 



Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, 

With a dread curtain drawn 
Between tliee and the golden glow 

Of this world's vernal dawn. 

Parted from all the song and bloom, 
Thou wouldst have loved so well, 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken ppell. 

The bird, the insect on the wing, 

In their bright reekless play. 
Might feel the flush and life of spring, 

And thou wert passed away! 

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought 

O'er my vain sadness came; 
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 

Within my thrilhng frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said, 
Thou must have looked, ere now, 

Than all that round our pathway shed 
Odours and hues below. 

The shadows of the tomb are here, 

Yet beautiful is earth ! 
What seest thou then where no dim fear. 

No haunting dream hath birth 1 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 
Thou gav'st — but where thou art. 

The sway is not with changeful hours, 
There love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud, but deep ! 
The glorious bowers of earth among, 

How often didst thou weep! 

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground 
Thy tender thouglits and highl 

Now peace the woman's heart hath found, 
And joy the poet's eye. 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 201, col. 1. 
When darkness from the vainly-doting sight, 
Covers its beautiful! 
''Wheresoever you are, or in v/hat state soever 
you be, it sufiiceth me you are mine. Rachel 



wept, and would not he comforted, because her 
children were no more. And that, indeed, is tha 
remediless sorrow, and none else !" — From a letter 
of Arabella Stuart's to her husband. — See Curio 
sities of Literature. 

Note 2, page 202, col. 2. 

Death !— what, is death a locked and treasured thing, 
Gi irded by swcrds of fire? 

"yvnd if you remember of old, I dare die. 

Consider what the world would conceive, if I 
should be violently enforced to do it." — FragmentB 
of her Letters. 

Note 3, page 204, col. 1. 

And her lovely thoughts froril their cells found way, 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 

A Greek Bride, on leaving her father's house, 
takes leave of her friends and relatives frequently 
in extemporaneous verse. — See FaurieVs Chants 
Populaires de la Grece Moderne. , 

Note 4, page 209, col. 2. 
And loved when they should hate — like thee, Trr.elda. 
The taleof Ime.lda is related in Sismondi'.s His- 
toric des Republiques Italienne. Vol. iii. p 443. 

Note 5, page 217, col. 1. 

Father of ancient waters, roll! ■ 

"Father of waters," the Indian name for the 
Mississippi. 

Note G, page 218, col. 2. 

And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade. 

A beautiful fountain near Domretni, believea 
to be haunted by faries, and a favourite resort of 
Jeanne d'Arc in her childhood. 

. Note 7, page 218, col. 2. 

But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride. 
Was she, the Lady from the Danube-side. 

The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg The 
story of her fate is beautifully related in L'A lie- 
raagne. Vol. iii, p. 336. 



^ons?^ of tlie ^ffectiowj^. 



A SPIRIT'S RETURN. 

This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality ! 

Manfred. 

Thy voice prevails; dear Friend, my gentle 

Friend ! 
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed, 
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend 
Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed 
Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close 
For evermore, above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering 

sound 
Is mingled into harmony profound ; 
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind 
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined, 
The trembling reeds and fountains; — Our own 

dell. 
With its green dimness and ^olian breath, 
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well — 
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith ! 

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal noon — 
I would thou hadst ! — for then my heart on thine 
Had poured a worthier love; now, all o'erworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 
It hath but fitful music to bestow, 
Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, 
As a lone forest-bird midst ocean's foam ; 
For me the silver chords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; — the voices from my home 
Passed one by one, and Melody and Mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But, with the fulness of a heart that burned 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes vvitii thrilling murmurs frauo-ht. 
In every still small voice and sound of power, 
And (lute-note of the wind through cave and 

bower, 
A perilous delight ! — for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 



Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, 
But ministered to that strange inborn fire. 

Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells, 
In noon-tide hours or golden summer-eves, 
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells 
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 
Shakes out response; — O thou rich world un- 
seen! 
Thou curtained realm of spirits ! — tlius my cry 
Hath troubled air and silence — dost thou lie 
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen 
Shut from us ever? — The resounding woods, 
Do their depths teem with marvels] — and the 

floods, 

And the pure fountains, leading secret veins 
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, 
Have they bright dwellers'? — are their lone do- 
mains 
Peopled with beauty, which may never still 
Our weary thirst of soul ? — Cold, weak and cold, 
Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one fold 
Of our deep being ! — Oh, for gifts more high ! 
For a seer's glance to rend mortality ! 
For a charmed rod, to call from each dark shrine, 
The oracles divine! 

I woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the Earth — I woke to love:- 
O gentle Friend ! to love in doubt and wo, 
Shutting the heart the worshipped name above, 
Is to love dee])ly — and my spirit's dower 
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power 
Of so adoring ; — with a buried care. 
And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer, 
And witii a deepening dream, that day by day, 
In the still shadow of its lonely sway, 
Folded me closer; — till the world held noucrht 
Save the one Being to my centred thought. 
There was no music but his voice to hear. 
No joy but such as with his step drew near. 
Light was but where he looke^.— life where je 

moved — 
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 
Oh ! but such love is fearful ! — and I knew 
Its gathering doom: — tiie soul's prophetic sight 
Even then unfolded in my breast, and tiirew 
O'er all things round, a full, strong, vivid li;fhl 



828 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Too sorrowfully clear! — an under-tone 
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone 
Wiiispering of grief— Of grief?— be strong, 

awake! 
Hath not thy love been victory, O, my soul 1 
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake 
Death's fastnesses"? — a magic to control 
Worlds far removed? — from o'er the grave to thee 
Love hath made answer ; and ihy tale should be 
Sung like a lay of triumph! — Now return. 
And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn, 
And lift it once to light I 

In fear, in pain 
I said I loved — but yet a heavenly strain 
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A joy flashed through the trouble of my dream ! 
I knew myself beloved ! — we breathed no vow, 
No mingling visions might our fate allow. 
As unto happy hearts; but still and deep. 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave. 
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave. 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep 
So jealously ! — a thing o'er which to shed. 
When stars alone beheld the drooping head, 
Lone tears ! yet ofttimes burdened with th' excess 
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness. 

But, oh! sweet Friend! we dream not of love's 

might 
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine ! — Before ihat hour. 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prisoned blast, — 
The sea is in our souls ! 

He died, he died. 
On whom my lone devoted ness was cast! 
I might not keep one vigil by his side, 
/, whose wrung heart watched with him to the last! 
I might not once his fainting head sustain, 
Nor bathe his parched lips in the hour of pain. 
Nor say to him, "Farewell I" — He passed away — 
Oh! had mylove been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death ! — but thus removed, 
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding line hath proved, 
Joined with the unknown, the viewless, — he be 

came 
LTnto my thoughts another, yet the same — 
Changed — hallowed — glorified ! — and in his low 

grave 
Streined a bright mourniui altar — mine, all mine: — 
Brother and Friend soon left me that sole shrine. 
The birthrightofthe Faitiiful ! — ^/lei?- world's wave 
Boot: swe[it them from its brink. — Oh ! deem thou 

not 
That on the sad and consecrated spot 



My soul grew weak ! — I tell thee that a power 
There kindled heart and lip ; — a fiery shower 
My words were made ; — a might was given to 

prayer. 

And a strong grasp to passionate despair. 
And a dread triumph ! — Know'st thou what I 

sought 1 

For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought? 
— Communion with the dead ! — I sent a cry, 
Through the veiled empires of eternity, 
A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth, 
By the lost promise of my blighted youth. 
By the strong chain a mightly love can bind 
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind ; 
By words, which in themselves are magic high, 
Armed, and inspired, and winged with agony; 
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem 
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream ; 
I summoned, I adjured ! — with quickened sense, 
With the keen vigil of a life intense, 
I watched, an answer from the winds to wring, 
I listened, if perchance the stream might bring 
Token from worlds afar : I taught one sound 
Unto a thousand echoes; one profound 
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky; 
One prayer to night, — "Awake, appear, reply!" 

Hath thou been told that from the viewless bourne 
The dark way never hath allowed return'? 
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled, 
That eartidy love is powerless on the deadi 
Believe it not ! — there is a large lone star. 
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar. 
And under its clear light there lies a spot. 
Which well might utter forth — Believe it not ! 

I sat beneath that planet, — I had wept 
My wo to stillness ! every night-wind slept ; 
A hush was on the hills ; the very streams 
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams, 
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour. 
Stood motionless, even as the gray church tower 
Whereon I gazed unconsciously : — there came 
A low sound, like the tremor of a flame. 
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, 
Flitting through twilight woods, across tlie air; 
And 1 looked up ! — Oh ! for strong words to bring 
Conviction o'er thy thought I^Before me there, 
He, the Departed, stood ! — Aye, face to face^ 
So near, and yet how far ! — his form, his mien, 
Gave to remembrance 'back each burning trace 
Within : — Yet something awfully serene, 
Pure, — sculpture-like, — on the pale brow, that 

wore 
Of the once beating heart no token more ; 
And stillness on the lip — and o'er the hair 
A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air; 
And an unfathomed calm, that seemed to lie 
In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye ; 



I L ^ .I - . 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS 



229 



Told of tlie gulfs between our being set, 
AntI, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met, 
Made my soul faint: — with fear? — Oh! not with 

fear! 
With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 
Aftj love could be as nothing! — But he spoke — 
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill 
In that low voice, whose breezy tones couli fill 
My bosom's infinite 1 — O Friend, I woke 
Then first to heavenly life ! — Soft, solemn, clear. 
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, 
Yet strangely seemed as if the while they rose 
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells; 
But, as they murmured on, the mortal chill 
Passed from me, like a mist before the morn, 
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne, 
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still. 
Possessed my frame : I sought that lighted eye, — 
From its intense and searching purity 
I drank in soul! — I questioned of the dead — 
Of the hushed, starry shores their footsteps tread — 
And I was answered : — if remembrance there. 
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air; 
If Thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, 
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep ; 
If Love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast, 
Find (here the music of his home at last ; 
I asked, and I was answered : — Full and high 
Was that communion with eternity. 
Too rich for aught so fleeting ! — Like a knell 
Swept o'er my sense its closing words, — "Fare- 
well, 
On earth we meet no more !" — and all was gone — 
The pale bright settled brow — the thrilling tone — 
The still and shining eye! — and never more 
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 
That radiant guest! — One full-fraught hour of 

Heaven, 
To earthly passion's wild implorings given. 
Was made my own — the ethereal fire hath shivered 
The fragile censer in whose mould it quivered, 
Brightly, consumingly! — What now is left? — 
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft, 
A void, a chain ! — I dwell, 'midst throngs^ apart, 
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart; 
A fixed, immortal shadow stands between 
My spirit and life's fast receding scene ; 
A gift hath severed me from human ties, 
A povi'er is gone from all earth's melodies, 
Which never may return: — their chords are bro- 
ken — ^ 
The music of another land hath spoken. 
No after-sound is sweet ! — this weary thirst! — 
And 1 have heard celestial fountains burst! — 
What here shall quench it 1 

Dost thou not rejoice. 
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
22 



Through the young woods'? — Thou dost I— And 

in that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness! — Couldstthou 

know 
How every breeze then summons me to go ! 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours, but wooes me to the Dead I 
The onhj beautiful that change no more. 
The only loved I — the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfilled ! — The Dead ! — whom call we sol 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that kn.iw 
Things wrapt from us ! — Away! — within me pent, 
That which is barred from its own element 
Still droops or struggles! — But the da.ywill come — 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home. 
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets 
The sea at last; and the winged flower-seed meets 
A soil to rest in: — shall not /, too, be. 
My spirit-love ! upborne to dwell with thee? 
Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish 

stirred 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, 
Whose agony of triumph won thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, 
Yet shall we meet ! — that glimpse of joy divine, 
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine ! 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE.* 



Courage was cast about her like a dress 

Of solemn comeliness, 
A gathered mind and an untroubled face 

Did give her dangers grace. 

Donne. 



The war-note of the Saracen 

Was on the winds of France; 
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour, 

And the clash of the tourney's lance. 

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay. 

On the old Provencal shore; 
Many a Chatillon beneath, 
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath. 

His shroud of armour wore. 
And the ghmpses of moonlight that went and 

came 
Through the clouds, like bursts of a djdng flamri, 
Gave quivering life to the sluinber pale 
Of stern forms couched in their marble mail, 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 



■ Founded on an incident in the early Fren. h hjslor» • 



They were imaged there with hehii and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career, 
And haughty their stiUness looked and high. 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory; 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose; 
Meekly, yet fervently, caUing down aid. 
Under their banners of battle she prayed; 
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love, 
U[)rai3ed to the Virgin's pourtrayed above, 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave 
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave. 
And her fragile frame, at every blast. 
That full of the savage war-horn passed, 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart. 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part, — 

So knelt she in her wo; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead — 
Oh ! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed. 

Or the dust had stirred below ! 

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone, 
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild 

wind's moan ; — 
Is her lord returned with his conquering bands? 
No ! a breathless vassal before her stands ! 
— " Hast thou been on the field? — Art thou come 

from the host 1" 

— "From the slaughter. Lady! — All, all is lost! 
Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe, 

And thy Lord," his voice took a sadder sound — 
"Thy Lord — he is not on the bloody ground ! 
There are those who tell that the leader's plume 
Was seen on the flight through the gathering 
gloom." 

— A change o'er her mien and spirit past ; 
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 
She dashed the tears from her kindling eye, 
With a glance, as of sudden royalty: 
The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, 
GLuick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow, 
And her young voice rose till the peasant shook 
At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look: 

- -" Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious 

dead, 
And fear not to say, that their son hath fled ? 
--Away ! he is lying by lance and shield, — 
^oint me the path to his battle-field !" 

The shadows of the forest 

Are about the lady now ; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on. 

Beneath the dark pine bough. 

There's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 
Tliere's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a 
chief; 



The branches that rock the tempest-strife. 
Are groaning like things of troubled life ; 
The wind from the battle seems rushing by 
With a funeral march through the gloomy sky ; 
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, 
But her frame in the daring of love is strong, 
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne, 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 
When she reached the field of the warrior-deaJ ; 
There lay the noble, the valiant, low — 
Aye ! but one word speaks of deeper wo ; 
There lay the loved — on each fallen head 
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed ; 
Sisters were watching in many a home 
For the fettered footstep, no more to come ; 
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, 
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 
And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine 

poured. 
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board ; 
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell. 
And oh I ye beloved of women, farewell! 

Silently, with lips compressed. 
Pale hands clasped above her breast, 
Stately brow of anguish high. 
Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye ; 
Silently, o'er that red plain. 
Moved the lady 'midst the slain. 

Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry. 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn. 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne; 
And her maidens trembled ; — but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear ; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now, 
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough 
She searched into many an unclosed eye. 
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky; 
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast. 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest — 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead where the most hath been dared and doiu;, 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled— lead ou^^ 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turned to a dark and lonely tree. 

That waved o'er a fountain red ; 
Oh! swiftest there had the currents free 

From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest tfierc the spear-heads gleamed, 
And the scattered plumage streamed, 
And the broken shields were tossed, 
And the shivered lances crossed, 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ground. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



lie was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand, 
He was there! but adection's glance alone 
The darkly-changed in that hour had known; 
Witli the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped, 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped, 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace. 
And the face — oh ! speak not of that dead face! 
As it lay to answer love's look no more, 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 
She quelled in her soul the deep floods of wo. 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death. 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath, 
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, 
As she tu rued to his followers — " Your Lord is there ! 
Look on him ! know him by scarf and crest ! — 
Bear him away with his sires to rest 1" 

Another day — another night — 

And the sailor on the deep 
Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 

From the lordly chapel sweep : 

It comes with a broken and muffled <one, 

As if that rite were in terror done ; 

■i'et the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling power, 

And he knows 'tis a chieftain's buri;J hour. 

Hurriedly, in fear and wo. 

Through the aisle the mourners go; 

With a hushed and stealthy tread, 

Bearing on the noble dead, 

Sheathed in armour of the field — 

Only his wan face revealed, 

Whence the still and solemn gleam 

Doth a strange sad contrast seem 

To the anxious eyes of that pale band. 

With torches wavering in every hand. 

For they dread each moment the shout of war. 

And the burst of the Moslem scimitar. 

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend. 

No brother of battle, no princely friend ; . 

No sound comes back like the sounds of yore, 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 

By the red fountain the valiant lie, 

The flower of Provenfal chivalry. 

But 07ie free step, and one lofty heart, 

Bear through that scene, to the last, their part. 

She hath led the death-train of the brave 

To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 

She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway. 

But the struggling passion must now have way. 

In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil. 

By turns docs the swift blood flush and fail; 

The pride on the lip is lingering still. 

But it shakes as a flame to the blast mi^ht thril ■ 

Q 

Anguish and Triumph are met at strife, 
Rending the chords of her frail young life ; 



And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier. 
Lifting her voice, as if Death might hear. — 

" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong I 
Now call me hence, by thy side to be. 
The world thou leav'st has no place for me. 
The light goes witii thee, the joy, the worth — 
Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth ! 
Give me my home on thy noble heart, — 
Well have we loved, let us both depart!" — 
And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay, 
The living check to the cheek of clay; 
The living cheek ! — Oh ! it was not vain, 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride, 
In death how queen-like — a glorious bride ! 

Joy for the freed One ! — she might not stay 

When the crown had fallen from her life away; 

She might not linger — a weary thing, 

A dove, with no home for its broken wing, 

Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, 

That know not its own land's melodies. 

From the long heart-withering early gone ; 

She hath lived — she hath loved — her task is done ' 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE 
CASTRO. 



Tableau, ou 1' Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; unior 
rcdoutable de la mort et de la vie I 

Madame de SlaeL 



There was music on the midnight; — 

From a royal fane it rolled, 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly tolled. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hushed tlie listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the midnight 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness, 

Along the shadowy street: 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it neared the minster-gate, 
Whence a broad and solenui light was shett 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glowed the strong red radiance, 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a vv^ve; 



232 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom, 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold. 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still- 

The drapery on her breast 
Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stonelike was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

vShook e'en the dust below, 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound. 

And from the encircling band 
Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound, 

With homage to her hand. 

Why passed a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came"? 
Was not the settled aspect fair *? 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still facel 

Death ! Death ! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of Life? 
[s not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife 1 
— It was a strange and fearful sight. 

The crown upon that head. 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light. 

All gathered round the Dead! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale. 
And white lips rigidly compressed. 

Lest the strong heart should fail: 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 

Watching the homage done, 
By the land's flower and chivalry, 

To her, his martyred one. 

But on the face he looked not. 

Which once his star had been ; 
To every form his glance was turned, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace. 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place. 

It was not for him to bear. 



Alas ! the crown, the sceptre. 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that poured those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed: — bear back the Dead 

Unto the chamber deep! 
■Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow. 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array, 
Are borne to the house of silence down, 

With her, that queen of clay! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train, — 
But his face was vi'rapt in his folding robe. 

When they lowered the dust again. 
'T is hushed at last the tomb above. 

Hymns die, and steps depart: 
Who called thee strong as Death, O Lovel 

Miffhtier thou wast and art. 



ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE 
VIRGIN. 



Osanctissima, o purissimal 

Dulcis Virgo Maria, 
Mater amata, intemerata, 

Ora, ora pro nobis. 

Siciliatt Mariner's Hymn. 



In the deep hour of dreams. 
Through the dark woods and past thp moaning 
sea, 

And by the star-light gleams. 
Mother of Sorrows ! lo, I come to thee. 

Unto thy shrine I bear 
Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie 

All, all unfolded there, 
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 

For thou, that once didst move. 
In thy still beauty, through an early home, 

Thou know'st the grief, the love. 
The fear of woman's soul; — to thee I come! 

' Many, and sad, and deep, 
I Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast; 
' Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 
Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart opprest! 



ThtTo is a wandering bark 
Bearing one From me o'er the restless waves; 

Oil ! lot tliy soft eye marlc 
His course;— Be witli him, Holiest, guide and 
save I 

My soul is on that way; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim 

Through the long weary day, 
I walk, o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him. 

Aid him, — and me, too, aid! 
Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess! 

On thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er him is poured 
My being's hope — scarce leaving Heaven a part; 

Too fearfully adored, 
3h ' make not him the chastener of my heart! 

I tremble with a sense 
Of grief to be; — I hear a warning low — 

Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 
This wild idolatry must end in wo. 

The troubled joy of life. 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 

And, worn with feverish strife. 
Would fold its wings; — take back, take back 
thine own ! 

Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave — 

Hope of the sailor's eye, 
And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save ! 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air. 
Or from some world unreached by human thought, 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught. 

Answer me, answer me ! 

Have we not communed here of life and death"? 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours. 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath. 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers 1 

Answer, oh ! answer me I 

Thme eye's last light was mine — the soul that 

shone 
intensely, mournfully, through gatherino- haze — 
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown 
Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze 1 
Hear, hear, and answer me ! 

Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife, 
R ' 22* 



Like a faint breeze :— oh ! from that music flown, 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life. 
But once, oh ! answer me ! 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, 

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows 

deep. 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness 

rush. 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep — 

Spirit 1 then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet, 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; — 
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet; 
Answer me, answer me ! 

The grave is silent :— and the far-off sky, 
And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone ! 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply, 
What voice has Earth 1— Hear, pity, speak, mine 
own 1 

Answer me, answer me ! 



THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE. 



For all hig wildness and proud fantasies, 
I love him I 

Croly. 

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the 

Chamois bounds. 
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the 

torrent-sounds ; 
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, 

through the stillness of the air, 
And where the Lauwine's* peal is heard — Hunter! 

thy heart is there ! 

I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend ! but bet- 
ter, better far, 

Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocka 
and storms at war; 

In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would 
but pine — 

And yet I will be thine, my Love 1 and yet I will 
be thine ! 

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those 
thy native heights, 

With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pas- 
toral deliiihts : 



Lauwine, the avalanclin. 



234 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Foi thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not 

as mine — 
And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and yet I will 

be thine. 

And I will leave my blessed home, my Father's 

joyous hearth, 
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness 

and mirth. 
With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its 

fire-light shine, 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, — yet know that thou 

art mine ! 

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free 
heart. 

That I cast away for thee — for thee— all reckless 
as thou art ! 

With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind my- 
self to dwell 

Yet, yet I would not change that lot, — oh no ! I 
love too well ! 

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so 

wild as thou. 
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless 

fire of brow ! 
Mournful ! — but dearer far I call its mingled fear 

and pride. 
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on 

earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every 

breath, 
To watch through long long nights of storm, to 

sleep and dre^ra of death, 
To wake in doubt and loneliness — this doom 1 

know is mine, — 
And yet I will be thine, my Love 1 and yet I will 

be thine ! 

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when 

thence thou com'st at last, 
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each 

danger past. 
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win 

thee aid divine, — 
For this I will be thine, my Love ! for this I will 

be thine ! 



THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD 
CHILD.* 

[n the silence of the midnight 
I journev with my dead ; 



• A.n Indian who had established himself in a township of 
Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced 
towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on the 
death of his only child, gave 'ip his farm soon afterwards, dug 
up L'le body or his chilu, ana carried it with him two hundred 



In the darkness of the forest-bough*, 
A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless, 

As by mighty wings upborne; 
The mountain eagle hath not plumes 

So strong as Love and Scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave-sod, 
By the white man's path defiled ; 

On to th' ancestral wilderness, 
I bear thy dust, my child! 

I have asked the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place, 
Where the stately footsteps of the free 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer — 
" Go, bring us back thine own 1" 

And the streams from all the hunters' hills. 
Rushed with an echoing tone. 

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters 

That yet untamed may roll ; 
The voices of that chainless host 

With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead, 
Where the arrows of my father's bow 

Their falcon flight have sped. 

I have left the spoiler's dwellings, 

For evermore, behind; 
Unmingled with their household sourids, 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires, 

I watched my child's decay, 
Uncheered, I saw the spirit-light 

From his young eyes fade away. 

When his head sank on my bosom, 
When the death-sleep o'er him fell. 

Was there one to say, " A friend is near!" 
There was none! — pale race, farewell! 

To the forests, to the cedars, 

To the warrior and his bow, 
Back, back ! — I bore thee laughing thence, 

I bear thee slumbering now! 

I bear thee unto burial 

With the mighty hunters gone ; 
I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze, 

Thou wilt speak of joy, my son! 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead; 
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet. 

My father's path I tread. 



miles through the forests to join the Canadian Indians. — See 
Tudor's Letters on Vie Eastern States of America. 



FONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



23f> 



SONG OF EMIGRATION. 

There was heard a song on thecliiniing sea, 

A mingled breathing of grief and glee; 

M?.n's voice, unbroken by sighs was there, 

Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 

Of fresh green lands, and of pastures new, 

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told, by its plaintive tone. 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

''Away, away o'er the foaming main !" 

This was the free and the joyous strain— 
" There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 
We will shape our course by a brighter star ; 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath pressed, 
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest." 

" But alas ! that we should go" 
— Sang the farewell voices then — 

" From the homesteads, warm and low, 
By the brook and in the glen !" 

" We will rfear new homes under trees that glow, 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine. 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline; 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still." 

" But wo for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard-trees. 

Where first our children played 
'Midst the birds and honey bees !" 

" All, all our own shall the forests be, 

As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 

None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass !' 

We will track each step through the wavy grass ; 

We will chase the elk in his speed and might. 

And brmg proud spoils to the hearth at night." 

" But, oh ! the gray church-tower. 
And the sound of Sabbath-bell, 

And the sheltered garden-bower, — 
We have bid them all farewell I" 

" We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods. 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods! 
^nd our works unto many a lake's green shore. 
Where the J.ndian's graves lay, alone, before " 

" But who shall teach the flowers, 
Which our children loved, te dwell 

In a soil that is not ours ? 

— Home, home and friends, farewell !" 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER.* 



If 1 could see him, it, were well with me. 

Coleridg^s Wallenstein. 



There were lights and sounds of revelling in the 

vanquished city's halls. 
As by night the feast of victory was held within 

its walls; 
And the conquerors filled the wine-cup high, after 

years of bright blood shed ; 
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the 
riumph, wailed the dead. 

He looked down from the fortress won, on the 

tents and towers below. 
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets,— and a 

gloom came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

utterly alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou city 

of the sea ! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last in 

theel 
I am lonely 'midst thy' palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roll. 
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

'■' My brotlier ! oh ! my brother ! thou art gone, — 
the true and brave. 

And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy 
grave ; 

There are many round my throne to stand, and to 
march where I lead on ; 

There was one to love me in the world, — my bro- 
ther ! thou art gone ! 

" In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean tempest's 

wrath. 
We stood together, side by side; one hope was 

ours, — one path ; 
Thou hast wrapped me in thy soldier's cloak, tnon 

hast fenced me with thy breast; 
Thou hast watched beside my couch of pain — oh ' 

bravest heart, and best ! 



• The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss ot 
his brother, Don Pedro, who was Ivilled during the siege r< 
Naples, is afTectingly described by the historian Mariann. Ii 
is also the suljject of one of ilie old Spanish I3allai'« iji Iajca 
hart's beautiful collection 



256 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



' 1 see the festive lights around; — o'er a dull sad 

world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory — my Pedro ! where is 

thine ? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found 

reply !— 
Oh ! brother! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

" I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory 

and my sway, 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly; — my friend 

hath passed away ! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart 

may thirst in vain, 
And the face that was as light to mine — it can not 

come again ! 

" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the of- 
fering for a crown ; 

With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have 
purchased cold renown ; 

How often vnll my weary heart 'midst the sounds 
of triumph die. 

When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flower of 
chivalry ! 

' I am lonely — I am lonely ! this rest is even as 
death 1 

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the bat- 
tle-trumpet's breath'. 

Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal 
banner wave — 

But where art thou, my brother? where? — in thy 
low and early grave !" 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through that 

victorious night. 
And faster flowed the red wine forth, by the stars' 

and torches' light ; 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the 

conqueror's moan — 
* My brother ! oh ! my brother ! best and bravest ! 

thou art gone!" 



THE RETURN. 

' Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood 
back? 
The free, the pure, the kind?" 
So murmured the trees in my homeward track. 
As they played to the mountain-wind. 

Hatn fhy soul oeen true to its early love ?" 
Whispered my native streams ; 
' Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove. 
Still revered its first high dreams V 



" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 

Of the child in his parent-halls?" 
— Thus breathed a voice on the thriUing air, 

From the old ancestral walls. 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead^ 

Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 

With the mother's trusting eye ?" 

— Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 

As I answered — " O, ye shades ! 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turned from my first pure love aside, 

O bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 

The day-spring's glorious dreams. 

" And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath 
passed — 

The prayer at my 'mother's knee ; 
Darkened and troubled I come at last, 

Home of my boyish glee ! 

" But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears. 

To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those blessed years 

They shall make me again your own." 



THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.* 



Clasp me a little longer, on the brink 
or fate! while I can feel the dear caress: 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh ! think — 
And let it mitigate thy wo's excess— 
That thou to rae hast been all tenderness. 

And friend, to more than human friendship just. 
Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust, 

GcTlnide of Wyoming. 



Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 

Thy look is in my heart, 
Thy bosom is my resting-place. 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong — too strong- 

Too precious is its chain. 
All woven of thy love, dear friend. 

Yet vain — though mighty — vain • 



* The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks niant 
on the Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and die.i 
in her husband's arms, exhorting him to courage and endur. 
ance. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



•2:f7 



Thou sec'st mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 

Thou sce'st iny life-blood flow. — 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let me go ! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie, 
Yet have we for their communing 

Still, still Eternity! 

Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burning rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not; — make the pang, 

The bitter conflict, less — 
Oh! sad it is, and yet a joy. 

To feel thy love's excess ! 

But calm thee ! Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon. 

Would speak to thee once more. 
That thou mayst bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life — 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 

1 bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew; 
1 bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 

For my own, my treasured share. 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

1 bless thee for kind looks and words 

Showered on my patli like dew, 
b or all the love in those deep eyes, 

A gladness ever new! 
t or the voice which ne'er to mine replied 

But in kindly tones of cheer; 
For every spring of happiness 

My soul hath tasted here ! 

I bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried, 
The right to gaze on death with thee, 

To perish by thy side ! 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

Even to these moments given — 
Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to Heaven? 

Now be thou strong! OIi! knew we not 

Our path must lead totliis7 
A shadow and a trcinbiing still 

Were mmgled with our bliss! 
We plighted our young hearts when storms 

Were darl^ upon the sky. 



In full, deep knowledge of their task 
To suffer and to die ! 

Be strong! I leave the living voice 

Of this, my martyred blood, 
With the tliousand echoes of the hills. 

With the torrent's foaming flood, — 
A spirit mids the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air, 
To rouse the valiant from repose. 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love! 

Aye, joyously endure ! 
Our mountains must be altars yet. 

Inviolate and pure ; 
There must our God be worshipped still 

With the worship of the free — 
Farewell ! — there's but one pang in death, 

One only, — leaving thee ! 



THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW 



Did you say all 1 



All my pretty ones! 



Let us make medicine of this great revenge, 
To cure this deadly grief ! 

MacbeUt. 



My battle-vow! — no minster walls 

Gave back the burning word, 
Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone 

Of smothered vengeance heard: 
But the ashes of a ruined home 

Thrilled as it sternly rose, 
With the mingling voice of blood that shook 

The midnight's dark repose. 

I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs. 

But where my children lay. 
And the startled vulture at my step, 

Soared from their precious clay. 
I stood amidst my dead alone — 

I kissed their lips — I poured, 
In the strong silence of that hour, 

My spirit on my sword. 

The roof-tree fall'n, the smouldering floor 

The blackened threshold-stone, 
The bright hair torn, and soiled with l>foo<i, 

Whose fountain was my own ; 
These, and tlic everlasting hills 

Bore witness that wild night; 
Before tliem rose th' avenger's soul, 

In crushed affection's might. 

The stars, the searching stars of heav«n 
With keen looks would upbrai 1. 



=JJ 



2o'o 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



If from my heart the fiery vow, 

Seared on it then, could fade. 
They have no cause ! — Go, ask the streams 

That by my paths have swept, 
The red waves that unstained were born^ 

How hath my faith been kepti 

And otlier eyes are on my soul. 

That never, never close, 
The sad, sweet glances of the lost — 

They leave me no repose. 
Haunting my night-watch 'midst the rocks, 

And by the torrent's foam, 
Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, 

Full, full of love and home! 

Alas ! the mountain eagle's heart. 

When wronged, may yet find rest ; 
Scorning the place made desolate, 

He seeks another nest. 
But I — your soft looks wake the thirst 

That wins no quenching rain; 
Ye drive me back, my beautiful! 

To the stormy fight again 1 



THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE.* 



Thither where he lies buried ! 
That single spot is the whole world to me. 

., Coleridge's Wallenstein. 



Thy voice was in my soul ! it called me on ; 

my lost friend ! thy voice was in my soul : 
From the cold faded world, whence thou art gone, 

To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come, I come! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well — 

We loved 1 oh! still, I know that still we love! 
I have left all things with thy dust to dwell. 
Through these dim aisles in dreams of thee to 
rove: 

This is my home! 

Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom ! 

Speak! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell! 
I will not shrink; — oh! mighty is the tomb. 

But one thing mighter, which it can not quell. 
This woman's heart ! 

This lone, full, fragile heart ! — the strong alone 
In love and grief— of both the burning shrine! 
Thoii, my soul's friend! with grief hast surely 
done, 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine, 
Say, couldst thou part? 



' See WnlUnsiein, Act 6th. 



I hear the rustling banners; a.nd I hear 

The wind's low singing through the fretted 
stone ; 
1 hear not thee; and yet I feel thee near — 

What is this bound that keeps thee from thine 
own? 

Breathe it away ! 

1 wait thee — I adjure thee! hast thou known 
How I have loved thee % couldst thou dream it 
all? 
Am I not here, with night and death alone, 
And fearing not? and hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway ? 

Thou canst not come! or thus I should not weep! 

Thy love is deathless — but no longer free ! 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be, 
Soon, soon, and fast! 

But I shall come to thee! our souls' deep dreams, 
Our young affections, have not gushed in vain; 
Soon in one tide shall blend the severed streams, 
The worn heart break its bonds — and death and 
pain 

Be with the past ! 



THE SISTERS OF SCIO. 



As are our hearts, our way is one, 
And can not be divided. Strong affection 
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things, 
Will I not live with thee? will I not cheer thee? 
Wouldst thou be lonely then? wouldst thou be sad? 
Joanna Baillie, 



"Sister,, sweet Sister! let me weep awhile! 

Bear with me — give the sudden passion way ! 
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle, 

Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears ; 
Oh! could my life melt from me in these tears ! 

" Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye. 
Our brother's bounding step — where are they, 
where ? 

Desolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 

— Hovk' hast thou won thy spirit from despair? 

O'er mine swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep; — 

I sink away — bear vnih. me — let me weep !" 

"Yes! weep, my Sister! weep, till from thy heart 
The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou 
not! 

I bind my sorrow to a lofty part. 

For thee, my gentle one! our orphan lot 

To meet in quenchless trust; my soul is strong— 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 



" A breath of our free heavens and noble sires 
A memory of our old victorious dead, — 

These mantle me with power! and though their 
fires 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed, 

Yet shall they light us onward, side by side; — 

Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide 1 

"Cheer, then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image —in whose voice a tone, 

A faint sweet sound of lier's is lingering yet, 
An echo of our childhood's music gone ; — 

Cheer thee! thy Sister's heart and fiith are high; 

Our path is one- with thee I live and die!" 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del 
Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to 
procure the release of his father, the Count Sal^ 
dana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso 
of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's 
birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war 
which he maintained proved so destructive that 
the men of the land gathered round the King, and 
united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, 
accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession 
of his father's person, in exchange for his castle 
of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up 
his strong-hold, with all his captives; and being 
assured that his father was then on his way from 
prison, rode forth with the King to meet him. 
"And when he saw his father approaching, he 
exclaimed," says the ancient chronicle, '"Oh, 
God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming!' — 
'Look where he is,' replied the cruel King, 'and 
now go and greet him whom you have so long 
desired to see.' " The remainder of the story will 
be found related in the ballad. The chronicles 
and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to 
Bernardo's history after this' event. 



The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed 
his heart of fire. 

And sued the haughty king to free his long-im- 
prisoned sire; 

" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 
captive train, 

[ pledge thee faith, my hege, ray lord! — oh, break 
my father's chain !" 

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ran- 
somed man this day; 

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 
him on his way." 

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 
his steed. 

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 
foamy speed. 



And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came 

a glittering band, 
With one tliat 'midst them stately rode, as a leader 

in the land ; 
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very 

truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearnca 

so long to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his 
cheek's blood came and went; 

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and 
there, dismounting, bent; 

A lowly knee to earth he bei>t, his father's hand 
he took, — 

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spi- 
rit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped 

from his like lead, — 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of 

the dead! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

was fixed and white; — 
Fie met at last his father's eyes — but in them was 

no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but 
who could paint that gaze! 

They hushed their very hearts, that saw its hor- 
ror and amaze; 

They might have chained him, as before that stony 
form he stood. 

For the power was stricken from his arm, and 
from his lip the blood. 

"Father!" at length he murmured low — and wept 

like childhood then, — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his 

young renown, — 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sate down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, 'to lift tho 

sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my Fatner— 

oh! the worth. 
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away 

from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners vi^aved, my 

sire! beside thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain « 

free Sv il had met. — 



240 



MRS. HEMANS' WORK.S. 



riiou wouldst have known my spirit then, — for 

thee my fields were won, — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as th >ugh 
thou hadst no son!" 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein. 

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the 
courtier train; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing 
war-horse led. 

And sternly set them face to face, — the king be- 
fore the dead! — 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's 

hand to kiss ? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me 

what is this I 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — gave 

answer, where are theyl — 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send Hfe 

through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put hght, — be still ! keep 
down thine ire, — 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth 
is not my sire ! 

Give me back him for whom 1 strove, for whom 
my blood was shed, — 

Thou canst not — and a king ] — His dust be moun- 
tains on thy head !" 

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell, — upon 
the silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then turn- 
ed from that sad place : 

His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in mar- 
tial strain, — 

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills 
of Spain. 



THE TOMB OF MADAME LANG- 
HANS* 

To a mysteriously consorted pair 
Tliis place is consecrate ; to deatli and life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction. 

Wordstoorth. 

rfow many hopes were borne upon tliy bier, 
bride of striken love ! in anguish hither ! 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year 
Plucked on the bosom of the dead to wither ; 



Hopes, firom their source all holy, though of earth, 
AH brightly gathering round affection's hearth. 

Of mingled prayer they told ; of Sabbath hours 
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting 
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers 
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting; 
But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart 
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence! 
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art 

sleeping ! 
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

Slumberer ! love calls thee, for the night is past ; 
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast, 
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking 1 
Thou hear'st, thou answer'st, " God of earth and 

Heaven ! 
Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given !" 



THE EXILE'S DIRGE.* 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious Winter's rages, 
Thou thy wordly tasl^ hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. 

Ci/mbcline. 

I attended a funeral where there were a number 
of the German settlers present. After I had per- 
formed such service as is usual on similar occa- 
sions, a most venerable-looking old man came for- 
ward, and asked me if I were willing that they 
should perform some of their peculiar rites. He 
opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, 
and they all began to sing, in German, so loud that 
the woods echoed the strain. There was something 
affecting in the singing of these ancient people, 
carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and 
using the language and rites which they had 
brought with them over the sea from the Vaicr- 
land, a word which often occurred in this hymn. 
It was a long, slow, and mournful air, which they 
sung as they bore the body along; the words "mein 
Gott" " mein Bruder" and " Vatevland" died 
away in distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall 
long remember that funeral hymn. — Flint's /?e- 
collections of the Valley of the Mississippi. 



At Hindlebn,nk, near Eerne, she IS represented as burstins rp ^ k .tu t_ ii. r i i 

„ , 1 1, -.1. u • > . • u . .1, 1 ■'^ HERE went a dirge through the foresc s gloom 

from the sepulchre, 'witft her mfant in her arms, at the sound n -i s o s= 

of 'iie last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes — ^n exile was borne to a lonely tomb. 

hus : — " Here am I. O God ! with '.he cliild whom thou hast 

9.ven me " ' ' Published ia the Winter's Wreath for 18^). 






SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



241 



" Brother J" (so the chant was sung 
In ihe slumbercr's native tongue,) 
" Friend and brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be : — 
Long the Exile's wo hath lain 
On thy life a withering chain ; 
Music from thine o«vn blue streams, 
Wandered through thy fever-dreams; 
Voices from thy country's vines, 
Met thee 'midst the alien pines, 
And thy true heart died away; 
And thy spirit would not stay." 

So swelled the chant; and the deep wind's moan 
Seemed through the cedars to murmur — "Gone!" 

" Brother by the rolling Rhine, 
Stands the home that once was thine — 
Brother! now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that blest thine infant head, 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; . 
She that heard thy lisping prayer. 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee played, 
Rest beneath their own oak shade, 
Far, far hence ! — yet sea nor shore 
Haply, brother ! part ye more ; 
God hath called thee to that band 
In the immortal Fatherland!" 

** The Fatherland !" — with that sweet word 
A burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard. 

" Brother ! were we there with thee 
Rich would many a meeting be 1 
Many a broken garland bound, 
Many a mourned and lost one found ! 
But our task is still to bear, 
Still to breathe in changeful air ; 
Loved and bright things to resign, 
As even now this dust of thine; 
Yet to hope 1 — to hope in Heaven, 
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven — 
Yet to pray! and wait the hand 
Beckoning to the Fatherland !" 

A /id the requiem died in the forest's gloom ; — 
They had reached the Exile's lonely tomb. 



Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy 
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet 
mild : 

And now thou tremblest! — wherefore? — in thy 

soul 
There lies no past, no future. — Thou hast heard 
No sound of presage from the distance roll, 
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word 

From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's 3'oung 

eye 
Hath looked not into Death's, and thence become 
A questioner of mute Eternity, 
A weary searcher for a viewless home : 

Nor hath thy sense been quickened unto pain, 
By feverish watching for some step beloved ; 
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train, 
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved. 

Yet now, on billows of strange passion tossed, 
How art thou wildered in the cave of sleep ! 
My gentle child! 'midst what dim phantoms lost, 
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weepl 

Awake ! they sadden me — those early tears, 
First gushings of tlie strong dark river's flow 
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years 
The unfathomable flood of human wo ! 

Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream. 
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's 

eyes! 
Wake, wake ! as yet thy life's transparent stream 
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. 

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, 
Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling 

rove ; * 

Come to the kindly region all thine own. 
The home still bright for thee with guardian love 

Happy, fair child I that yet a mother's voice 
Can win thee back from visionary strife ! — 
Oh ! shall my soul, thus wakened to rejoice. 
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life 1 



THE DREAMING CHILD. 

Alas! what kiml of grief should thy years knowl 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles ihem. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Avn is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy? 
What should the cloud be made of J — blessed child ! 
23 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 



Oh I that those lips had language !— Life hath passed 
With me but roughly since I saw thee last. 

Coiepet 

Thine eyes are charmed — thine earnest eye»- 

Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 

A virtue thence is shed. 



24-3 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oft in their meek blue light enshrined, 

A blessing seems to be, 
And sometimes there my wayward mind 

A still reproach can see : 

And sometimes Pity — soft and deep, 

And quivering through a tear; 
pA'en as if Love in Heaven could weep, 

For Grief left drooping here. 

And oh ! my spirit needs that balm, 

Needs it 'rnidst fitful mirth ; 
And in the night-hour's haunted calm. 

And by tiie lonely hearth. 

Look on me thus, when hollow praise 

Hath made the weary pine 
For one true tone of other days. 

One glance of love like thine ! 

Look on me thus, when sudden glee 

Bears my quick heart along, 
On wings that struggle to be free. 

As bursts of skylark song. 

In vain, in vain ! — too soon are felt 

The wounds they can not flee ; 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pouring my soul on thee ! 

Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone, 

Whence is thy power of change, 
Thus ever shadowing back my own. 

The rapid and the strange 1 

Whence are they charmed — those earnest eyes 1 

— I know the mystery well! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell ! 

Of Memory, Conscience, "Love, 'tis born— 

Oh ! change no longer, thou ! 
For ever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



PARTING WORDS. 



One struggle more, and I am free. 

Byron. 

Leave me, oh ! leave me! — unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou mak'st thi^se mortal regions, whence I go. 
Too mignty in their loveliness — tarewell. 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound. 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 



Wakes in my soul a feeling too prfoound. 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear— 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart* 
Thou bid'st tlie peace, the reverential hush, 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart ; 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky 
Oh i take that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 
Thou art all earth to me ! 

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room. 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee; 
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of lovs, of summer, and of thee, 
Too much — and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now. 
From the old beech-roots flashing into day 1 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 
Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 
From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
— Not now ! 'twill not be now ! — my aching sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 
Bearing all strength away ! 

Leave me ! — thou com'st between my heart and 

Heaven ! 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! 
— Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven'? 
— Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
— Oh, yet awhile delay ! 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.* 

Thou 'rt passing hence, my brother ! 

Oh ! my earliest friend, farewell ! 
Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the hearth, 

And from the household-tree, 
With thee departs the hngering mirth. 

The brightness goes with thee. 



• " Messages from the living to the dead are not uncommon 
in the Highlands. The Gael have such a ceaseless conscious- 
neas "of immortality, that their departed friends are considei- 
ed as merely absent for a time, and permitted to relieve tha 
hours of separation by occasional intercourse with the objects 
of their earliest affections."— See the Notes to Mrs. Brun 
ton's Works. 

r 



S0JNG3 OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



^43 



But thou, my friend, my brother ! 

Tliou 'rt speeding to the shore 
Wlierc the dirgcliice tone of parting words 

Shall smite tlie soul no more! 
And fhou wilt see our holy dead; 

The lost on earth and main; 
Into (he sheaf of kindred hearts, 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood, 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Passed like a swift bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow, 

The vision of his glee, 
Are on me still — Oh ! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister. 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is filled 

With lays she loved to sing. 
Her soft, deep eyes look through my dreams, 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet ! 

And tell our white-haired father, 

That in the paths he trode, 
The child he loved, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

•Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his lace to view. 

And tell our gentle mother. 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth, 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon. 

Our good and bright will see ! — 
Oh ! brother, brother ! may I dwell, 

Ere long, with them and thee ! 



THE TWO HOMES, 



Oh! if the soul ii-nrnortal be, 
la not its love immortal too 1 



Sef.st thou my home! — 'tis where yon woods are 

waving. 
In their dark richness, to the summer air; 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-hanks 

laving, 
Leads down the hills a vein of lighf, — 'tis there ! 



'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies 

gleaming 
Fringed with the violet, coloured with the skies! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer 

dreaming. 
Under young leaves that shook whh melodies. 

My home ! the spirit of its love is breathing 
In every wind that plays across my track ; 
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing 
Seem with soft Unks to draw the wanderer back. 

There am I loved — there prayed for — there my 
mother 

Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 

There my young sisters watch to greet their bro- 
ther 

— Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blendingj 
All the home-voices meet at day's decline; 
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending,— 
There laughs my home — sad stranger! where b 
thine 1 

Ask'st thou of mine 1 — In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away; 
'T is where /, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step — But where are 

they? 

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwell- 
ing! 
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air! 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the lov- 
ing 1 
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, 
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe — but dark seas roll between. 



THE SOLDIER'S DEATH-BED, 



Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht! da ich noch elo 
Bube war — war'? mein Lieblingsge.'.!anke, wie sie zu loben, 
wie sie zu sterben I 

Die Itauber. 



Like thee to die, thou sun! — My boyhood's dream 
Was this; and now my spirit, with thy beam, 
Ebbs from a field of victory ! — yet the hour 
Bears back upon me, with a torrent's powei. 



214 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Nature's deep longings : — Oh ! for some kind eye, 

Wherein to meet love's fervent farew^ell gaze ; 

Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 

Some voice, to speak of hope and brighter days, 

Beyond the pass of shadows ! — But I go, 

I, that have been so loved, go hence alone ; 

And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's 

glow, 
Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone, 
Even in this moment, with your laughing glee, 
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me : 
Of me, your soldier, 'midst the mountains lying, 
On the red banner of his battles dying, 
Far, far away ! — and oh I your parting prayer — 
Will not his name be fondly murmured there 1 
It will ! — A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth. 
Mother! I may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Young brother, fare thee well ! — on each dear head 
Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed. 
My soul's last earthly breathings! — May your 

home 
Smile for you ever ! — May no winter come. 
No world between your hearts! May ev'n your 

tears 
For my sake, full of long-remembered years, 
Gluicken the true affections that entwine 
Your lives in one bright bond ! — I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine 
Over my slumbers ; yet your love will keep 
My memory living in the ancestral halls, 
Where shame hath never trod : — the dark night 

falls, 
And I depart. — The brave are gone to rest. 
The brothers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reaped : — their work is done — 
Thou, too, art set! — farewell, farewell, thou sun! 
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod, 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 



True, indeed, it is, 
That they whom death lias hidden from our sight. 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
Tlie future can not contradict the past — 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
(s undergone. . 

Wordswortfif 

The love where death has set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow. 

Byron. 

■, CALL tnee blest! — though now the voice be fled, 
Which to ',hy soul, brought dayspring with its tone, 



And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread. 
Eyes that ne'er looked on thine but light wastbrown 
Far through thy breast: 

And though the music of thy life be broken. 
Or changed in every chord, since he is gone. 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee blest ! 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, 
As 'mid the waste an Isle of fount and palm. 
For ever green ! — the world's breath enters not 
The passion-tempests may not break its calm; 
'T is thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbafHed, mayst thou turn. 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, 
Cluenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn 
That, filled with waters of sweet memory, lies 
In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy home! — there is no power in change 
To reach that temple of the past; — no sway. 
In all times brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hushed air ! 

And oh ! that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may I'est, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! — I call thee blest, 
If only there ! 

Blest, for the beautiful within thee dwelling, 
Never to fade ! — a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling. 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! — it is no dream. 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love. 
The rainbow still unreached, the ideal gleam. 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and marked, hast known its home ano 

place ; 
And the high memory of its holy worth, 
To this our life a glory and a grace 

For thee hath given. 

I And art thou not still fondly, truly loved? 
Thou art ! — the love his spirit bore away. 
Was not for death ! — a treasure but rem-^ved, 

1 A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 

Thine still in Heaven i 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 



24f) 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



And dreams, in their development, have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waiting thoughts, 
They make us what we were not — what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 

ByTon. 



O Spirit-Land I thou land of dreams! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife, — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and minglihg in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past. 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea-caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come 

and go. 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and wo. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye, 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair — even as Eden fair 
All the beloved of my soul are there! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see. 
The eyes, whose love hath been life to me: 

They are there, — and each blessed voice I hear, 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear; 
But under tones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream; it will melt away!" 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow; 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint 

through the lay, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away!" 

I sit by the hearth of my early days; 

All the home-faces arc met by tlie blaze, — 

And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, 

" It is but a dream; it will rnelt away!" 
<j3« 



And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone. 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices 1 where are ye, where 1 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams. 
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 
Make not my spirit within me burn 
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er re- 
turn! 

Call out from the future thy visions bright. 
From the world o'er the grave, take thy solemn 

light. 
And oh ! with the loved, whom no more I see. 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be, in some purer sphere, 
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear; 
So my soul may bear on through the long, long 

day, 
Till I go where the beautiful melts not away i 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE 



Where hath not woman stood, 
Strong in affection's might '{ a reed, upborne 
By an o'ermaatering current ! 



Gentle and lovely form, 
What didst thou here, 

When the fierce battle-storm 
Bore down the spear 1 

Banner and shivered crest, 

Beside thee strown, 
Tell that amidst the best, 
Thy work was done! 

Yet strangely, sadly fair. 

O'er the wild scene, 
Gleams, through its golden hair. 

That brow serene. 

Low lies the stately head, — 
Earth-bound the free ; 

How gave those haughty dead 
A place to thee 7 

Slumberer! thine early bier 
Friends should have crowned, 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding around. 

Soft voices clear and young, 

Mingling their swell, 
Should o'er thy dust have suii%' 

Earth's l»st larewell. 



246 



MRb. HEMAJNS' WORKS. 



Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose, 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note, 

Savage and shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still! 

And the swift charger sweep, 

In full career. 
Trampling thy place of sleep, — 

Why earnest thou here 1 

Why 7 — ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever, where brave men die, 

Unshrinking seen 1 

Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came, — 

Some, for that stirring sound 
A warrior's name ; 

Some, for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; — 
And some, to fling away 

A weary life : — 

But thou, pale sleeper, thou, 
With the slight frame. 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death can not tame ; 

Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led, 
So, through the tempest's hour, 

To lift thy head ! 

Only the true, the strong. 
The love, whose trust 

Woman's deep soul too long 
Pours on the dust ! 



THE DESERTED HOUSE, 

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, 

O silent house! once filled with mirth; 

Sorrow is in the breezy sound, 

Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers ; 
Even in thy su-nshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sweet home of other days ! 
My children's birth place ! yet for me, 
It is too much to look on thee. 



Too much I for all about thee spread, 
I feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanished now. 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household words 
' Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trust. 
For all which went with " dust to dust !" 

What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze 
To lift, through tears, my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high 1 

Oh ! many are the mansions there,* 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by, 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky. 

And they are there, whose long-xived mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread; 
We miss them when the prayer is said j ' 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,t 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But, by your life of lowly faith. 
And by your joyful hope in death, 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore, 
The severed wreath is bound once more !" 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you ; 
Guide me, like you, to live and die. 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



* In my Father's house there are many mansions. 

John, chaji. xiv. 
t From an ancient Hebrew dirge : 

" Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead, 

For he is at rest, and we in tears !" 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



247 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

The stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not 
A yearning anguisii is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou thinlv'st the vine's low rusthng leaves 
Glad music round tiiy household eaves; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day; — 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed — 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who prayed with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land — 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
Oh ! 'midst them all when blest thou art. 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart 1 



COME HOME. 

Come home! — there is a sorrowing breath 

In music since ye went. 
And tiie early flower-scents wander by, 

Wit!i mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep, 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

O ye Beloved! come home! — the hour 

Of many a greeting tone. 
The time of hearth -light and of song. 

Returns — and ye are gone! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On tiie forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderness. 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, ye wandering ones? 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid-sea? 
By stormy hills of battles old? 

Or where dark rivers foam? 
— Oh ! life is dim where ye are not — 

Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of sprino-, 

And swift birds, o'er the main! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful — 

Bring us its youth again! 



Bring the glad tones to music back 
Still, still your home is fair, 

The spirit of your sunny life 
Alone is wanting there ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION, 

" Implora pace 1" ' 

One draught, kind Fairy ! from that tountam deep 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast. 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest ; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave- 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal, pause ! — within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gathered long and slowly ; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house ; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; 
— Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair ? 

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efTac* 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amassed. 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace. 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf. 
Rase the one master-grief! 

Yet pause once more ! — all, all thy soul hath knowt 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fad*., i 
Is there no voice wiiose kind awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made 1 
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall? 
— Think — wouldstthou part with all? 

Fill with forgetfulness ! — there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness — but they are far-- 
Never! oh — never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul — 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! — with memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born? 
Hope of re-union, lieart to heart at last, 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 

That make such visions bright ^ 



" Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. lie describe!" the 
impression produced upon hirn by some tombs at Bologna, 
bearing tliis eimple inscription, and adds, "Wlien I die, I 
could wish that Eome friend would see these words, and n« 
other, placed above my gnwo--' linplorn pace ' " 





348 MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 


Fill with forgetfulness, fill high ! — yet stay — 


For their sake, for the dead — whose image nought 


— 'T is from the past we shadow forth the land 


May dim within the temple of my breast — 


Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 


For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 


And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band: 


May shake or trouble with its own unrest. 


— Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill, 


Though the past haunt me as a spirit, — yet 


I must remember still. 


I ask not to forget. 


?^^mnn ^u tie M^mM m M^utim, 


FOR THE USE 


OF CHILDREN. 


[The following Hymns were written expressly 




for the use of Mrs. Hemans's own children. She 


THE RAINBOW. 


has consented to their publication, in the hope that 




they may be useful to others. The editor trusts 


I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of 


that they will afford a new source of gratification 


a covenant between me and the earth. 


to her admirers and friends in this country. 


Genesis ix. 13. 


To the Hymns are added two beautiful little 




poems before published, addressed by Mrs. Hemans 


Soft falls the mild, reviving shower 


k) her children. A. N.] 


From April's changeful skies, 




And rain-drops bend each trembling flower 




They tinge with richer dyes. 


INTRODUCTORY VERSES. 


Oh ! blest art thou, whose steps may rove 


Soon shall their genial influence call 


Through the green paths of vale and grove, 


A thousand buds to day. 


Or, leaving all their charms below, 


Which, waiting but their balmy fall. 


Climb the wild mountain's airy brow ; 


In hidden beauty lay. 


And gaze afar o'er cultured plains, 


E'en now full many a blossom's bell 


And cities with their stately fanes, 


With fragrance fills the shade ! 


And forests, that beneath thee lie, 


And verdure clothes each grassy dell. 


And ocean mingUng with the sky. 


In brighter tints arrayed. 


For man can show thee nought so fair. 


But mark ! what arch of varied hue 


As Nature's varied marvels there ; 


From heaven to earth is bowed 1 


And if thy pure and artless breast 


Haste, ere it vanish, haste to view 


Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 


The Rainbow in the cloud. 


For thee the stream in beauty flows, 


How bright its glory! there behold 


For thee the gale of summer blows, 


The emerald's verdant rays. 


And, in deep glen and wood-walk free, 


The topaz blends its hue of gold 


Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 


With the deep ruby's blaze. 


But happier far, if then thy soul 


Yet not alone to charm thy sight 


Can soar to Him who made the whole, 


Was given the vision fair ; — 


1 f to thine eye the sin.plest flower 


Gaze on that arch of coloured light, 


Portray His bounty and His power. 


And read God's mercy there. 


If, in whate'er is bright or grand, 


It tells us that the mighty deep. 


Thy mind can trace His viewless hand, 


Fast by th' Eternal chained. 


[f Nature's music bid thee raise 


No more o'er earth's domains shall sweep 


Thy song of gratitude and praise ; 


Awful and unrestrained. 


11 heaven and earth, with beauty fraught 


It tells that seasons, heat and cold. 


[jead to his throne thy raptured thought,^ 


Fixed by his sovereign will, 


if there thou lov'st His love to read, 


Shall, in their course, bid man behold 


Then, wanderer, thou art bles»t indeed. 


Seed-time and harvest still ; 


L . ■ .1 



HYMNS ON THE WORKS OF NATURE. 249 




That still the flower shall deck the field, 


There bear the bark, whose stately sail 


Wlion the vernal zephyrs blow; 


Exulting seems to swell ; 




Tiiat still the vine its fruit shall yield, 


While these, scarce rippled by a gale, 




When autumn sun-beams glow. 


Sleep in the lonely dell. 




Then, child of that fair earth! which yet 


Yet on, alike, though swift or slow 




Smiles with each charm endowed. 


Their various waves may sweep, 




Rless thou His name, whose mercy set 


Through cities or through shades they flow 




The Rainbow in the cloud ! 


To the same boundless deep. 
Oh ! thus, whate'er our path of life. 




THE SUN. 


Through sunshine or through gloom, 
Through scenes of quiet or of strife. 




The Sun comes forth; — each mountain height 


Its end is still the tomb. 




Glows with a tinge of rosy light, 






And flowers that slumbered through the night, 


The chief, whose mighty deeds we hail, 




Their dewy leaves unfold ; 


The monarch throned on high. 




A, flood of splendour bursts on high, 


The peasant in his native vale. 




And ocean's breast reflects a sky 


All journey on — to die ! 




Of crimson and of gold. 


But if Thy guardian care, my God ! 




Oh ! thou art glorious, orb of day ! 
Exulting nations hail thy ray, 
Creation swells a choral lay, 


The pilgrim's course attend. 




I will not fear the dark abode. 




To which my footsteps bend. 




To welcome thy return; 


For thence thine all-redeeming Son, 




From thee all nature draws her hues, 


Who died, the world to save. 




Thy beams the insect's wings suffuse, 


In light, in triumph, rose, and woa 




And in the diamond burn. 


The victory from the grave ! 




Yet must thou fade ; — when earth and heaven 






, By fire and tempest shall be riven. 






Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven, 
Oh Sun! must fall at last; 


THE STARS. 




Another heaven, another earth. 






Far other glory shall have birth. 


The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmamom 




When all we see is past. 


showeth hia handy work. 




But He, who gave the word of might. 


Psalm xlx. 1. 




" Let there be light" — and there was light, 






Who bade thee chase the gloom of night. 


No cloud obscures the summer sky. 




And beam, the world to bless; — 


The moon in brightness walks on high, 




For ever bright, for ever pure. 


And, set in azure, every star 




Alone unchanging shall endure, 


Shines, like a gem of heaven, afar! 




The Sun of righteousness ! 


Child of the earth ! oh ! lift thy glance 
To yon bright firmament's expanse; 
The glories of its realm explore. 




THE RIVERS. 


And gaze, and wonder, and adore I 




Go ! trace th' unnumbered streams, o'er earth 


Doth it not speak to every sense 




That wind their devious course. 


The marvels of Omnipotence 1 




That draw from Alpine heights their birth. 


Seest thou not there tii' Almighty name, 




Deep vale, or cavern source. 


Inscribed in characters of flame "? 




Some by majestic cities glide, 


Count o'er those lamps of quenchless light, 




Proud scenes of man's renown, 


That sparkle through the shades of night 1 




Some lead tlieir solitary tide. 


Behold them I — can a mortal boast 




Where pathless forests frown. 


To number that celestial host 1 




Some calmly roll in golden sands, 


Mark well each little star, whose ray? 




Where Afric's deserts lie ! 


In distant splendour meet thy gaze. 




Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands 


Each is a world by Him sustained, 




VVith rich fertility. | 
S 


WIm"i from etcrnitv hath rtiigned. 


— 



ilbO 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Each, shining not for earth alone, 
Hath suns and planets of its own, 
And beings, whose existence springs 
From Him, th' all-powerful King of kings. 

Haply, those glorious beings know 
Nor stain of guilt, nor tear of wo! 
But raising still th' adoring voice, 
For ever in their God rejoice. 

What then art thou, oh ! child of clay ! 
Amid creation's grandeur, say 1 
— E'en as an insect on the breeze, 
E'en as a dew-drop, lost in seas ! 

Yet fear thou not!— the sovereign hand, 
Which spread the ocean and the land. 
And hung the rolling spheres in air, 
Hath, e'en for thee, a Father's care ! 

Be thou at peace! — th' all-seeing eye, 
Pervading earth, and air, and sky, 
The searching glance which none may flee, 
Is ftill, in mercy, turned on thee. 



THE OCEAN. 



They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in 
great waters, these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders 
Sn the deep. 

Psalm cvii. 23, 24. 



He that in Venturous barks hath been 

A wanderer on the deep, 
Can tell of many an awful scene, 

Where storms for ever sweep. 

^or many a fair majestic sight 
Hath met his wandering eye, 

Beneath the streaming northern light, 
Or blaze of Indian sky. 

Go! ask him of the whirlpool's roar, 
Whose echoing thunder peals 

Loud, as if rushe^l along the shore 
An army's chariot wheels ; 

Of icebergs, floating o'er the main. 

Or fixed upon the coast. 
Like glittering citadel or fane, 

'Mid the bright realms of frostj 

Of coral rocks from waves below 
In steep ascent that tower, 

And fraught with peril, daily grow. 
Formed by an insect's power ; 

Of sea-fires, which at dead of night 

Shine o'er the tides afar, 
And make th' expanse of ocean brigh- 

As heaven, with many a s2ar. 



Oh God ! thy name they well may piaiae, 

Who to the deep go down. 
And trace the wonders of thy ways, 

Where rocks and billows frown. 

If glorious be that awful deep. 

No human power can bind. 
What then art Thou, who bldst it keep 

Within its bounds confined ! 

Let heaven and earth in praise unite, 

Eternal praise to Thee, 
Whose word can rouse the tempest's might, 

Or still the raging sea 1 



THE THUNDER STORM. 

Deep, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky, 

Dead stillness reigns in air. 
There is not e'en a breeze, on high 

The gossamer to bear. 

The woods are hushed, the waves at rest, 

The lake is dark and still. 
Reflecting, on its shadowy breast. 

Each form of rock and hill. 

The lime-leaf waves not in the grove, 

Nor rose-tree in the bower; 
The birds have ceased their songs of love, 

Awed by the threatening hour. 

'T is noon; — yet Nature's calm profound 

Seems as at midnight deep ; 
— But hark ! what peal of awful sound 

Breaks on creation's sleep 1 

The thunder bursts! — its rolling might 

Seems the firm hills to shake; 
And in terrific splendour bright. 

The gathered lightnings break 

Yet fear not, shrink thou not, my child! 

Though by the bolt's descent 
Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled. 

And the wide forests rent. 

Doth not thy God behold thee still, 

With all-surveying eye 1 
Doth not his power all nature fill, 

Around, beneath, on high 1 

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free, 

To track the realms of air. 
Thou couldst not reach a spot where Ho 

Would not be with thee there ! 

In the wide city's peopled towers, 

On the vast ocean's plains, 
'Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowera, 

Alike th' Almighty reigns! 




Then fear noi, though the angry sky 
A thousand darts should cast ; — 

Why should we tremble, e'en to die, 
And be with Him at last ] 



THE BIRDS. 



Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of 
them ia forgotten before God. 

St. Luke, xii. 6. 

Trires of the air ! whose favoured race 
May wander through the realms of space, 

Free guests of earth and sky ; 
In form, in plumage, and in song. 
What gifts of nature mark your throng 

With bright variety ! 

Nor differ less your forms, your flight, 
your dwellings hid from hostile sight, 

And the wild haunts ye love ; 
Birds of the gentle beak !* how dear 
Your wood-note, to the wanderer's ear. 

In shadowy vale or grove ! 

Far other scenes, remote, sublime, 
Where swain or hunter may not climb, 

The mountain-eagle seeks ; 
Alone he reigns, a monarch there, 
Scarce will the Chamois' footstep dare 

Ascend his Alpine peaks. 

Others there are, that make their home 
Where the white billows roar and foam. 

Around th' o'erhanging rock ; 
Fearless they skim the angry wave, 
Or sheltered in their sea-beat cave, 

The tempest's fury mock. 

Where Afric's burning realm expands, 
The ostrich haunts the desert sands, 

Parched by the blaze of day; 
The swan, where northern rivers glide. 
Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide, 

Floats graceful on her way. 

The condor, where the Andes tower. 
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power, 

And many a storm defies ; 
Bright in the orient realms of morn, 
All beauty's richest hues adorn 

The Bird of Paradise. 

Some, amidst India's groves of palm. 
And spicy forests breathing balm. 



• The IcaliaM call all singing birds, Birds of the gentle 
oeak. 1 



Weave soft their pendent nest ; 

Some, deep in western wilds, display 

Their faiiy form and plumage gay. 

In rainbow colours drest. 

Others no varied song may pour. 
May boast no eagle-plume to soar. 

No tints of light may wear; 
Yet, know, our Heavenly Father guides 
The least of these, and well provides 

For each, with tenderest care. 

Shall He not then thy guardian hcl 
Will not his aid extend to thee ? 

Oh ! safely may'st thou rest ! 
Trust in his love, and e'en should pain, 
Should sorrow tempt thee to complain, 

Know, what He wills is best ! 



THE SKY LARK. 

The Sky-lark, when the dews of morn 
Hang tremulous on flower and thorn, 
And violets round his nest exhale 
Their fragrance on the early gale. 
To the first sunbeam spreads his wings, 
Buoyant with joy, and soars, and sings, 

He rests not on the leafy spray, 
To warble his exulting lay, 
But high above the morning cloud 
Mounts in triumphant freedom proud, 
And swells, when nearest to the sky, 
His notes of sweetest ecstacy. 

Thus, my Creator ! thus the more 
My spirit's wing to Thee can soar, 
The more she triumphs to behold 
Thy love in all thy works unfold. 
And bids her hymns of rapture be 
Most glad, when rising most to Thee. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

When twilight's gray and pensive hour 
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower 
And bids the solitary star 
Shine in pale beauty from afar; 

When gathering shades the landscape veil, 
And peasants seek their village-dale. 
And mists from river-wave arise. 
And dew in every blossom lies ; 

When evening's primrose opes, to shed 
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed ; 
When glow-worms in the wood-walk lighi 
Their lamp, to cheer the traveller'? sight • 



252 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



At that calm hour, so still, so pale. 
Awakes the lonely nightingale ; 
And from a hermitage of shade 
Fills with her voice the forest-glade. 

And sweeter far that melting voice, 
Than all which through the day rejoice ; 
And still shall bard and wanderer love 
The twilight music of the grove. 

Father in Heaven ! oh ! thus, when da}' 
With all its cares hath passed away. 
And silent hours waft peace on earth, 
And hush the louder strains of mirth ; 

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer 
To Thee my spirit's offering bear ; 
Yon star, my signal, set on high, 
For vesper-hymns of piety. 

So may thy mercy and thy power 
Protect me through the midnight hour ; 
And balmy sleep and visions blest 
Smile on thy servant's bed of rest. 



THE NORTHERN SPRING. 

When the soft breath of Spring goes forth 
Far o'er the mountains of the North, 
How soon those wastes of dazzling snow 
With life, and bloom, and beauty glow. 

Then bursts the verdure of the plains. 
Then break the streams from icy chains ; 
And the glad rein-deer seeks no more 
Amidst deep snows his mossy store. 

Then the dark pine-wood's boughs are seen 
Arrayed in tints of living green ; 
And roses, in their brightest dyes. 
By Lapland's founts and lakes arise. 

Thus, in a moment, from the gloom 
And the cold fetters of the tomb. 
Thus shall the blest Redeemer's voice 
Csti forth his servants to rejoice. 

For He, whose word is truth, hath said, 
His power to life shall wake the dead, 
And summon those he loves, on high, 
To " put on immortality !" 

Then, all its transient sufferings o'er. 
On wings of light the soul shall soar, 
Exulting, to that blest abode 
Where tears of sorrow never flowed. 



PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVIII. 



Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heaveri/i 
praise him in the heights. 

Praise ye the Lord ! on every height 

Songs to his glory raise! 
Ye angel-hosts, ye stars of light^ 

Join in immortal praise ! 

Oh ! heaven of heavens ! let praise far-swelling 

Prom all your orbs be sent ! 
Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling 

Above the firmament ! 

For His the word which gave you birth. 

And majesty and might ; 
Praise to the Highest from the earth, 

And let the deeps unite ! 

Oh ! fire and vapour, hail and snow, 

Ye servants of His will ; 
Oh ! stormy winds, that only blow 

His mandates to fullil; 

Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise-. 

Fair cedars of the wood; 
Creatures of life, that wing the skies, 

Or track the plains for food ; 

Judges of nations; kings, whose hand 

Waves the proud sceptre high ; 
Oh ! youths and virgins of the land, 

Oh ! age and infancy ; 

Praise ye His name, to whom alone 

AH homage should be given ; 
Whose glory from th' eternal throne 

Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven ! 



TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CBli. 
DREN 

ON HIS BIRTH DAY, AUGUST 27, 1825. 

Thou wak'st from happy sleep to play 

With bounding heart, my boy ! 
Before thee lies a long bright day 

Of summer and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream 

To cloud thy fearless eye; — 
Long be it thus — life's early stream 

Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet ere the cares of life lie dim 

On thy young spirit's wings. 
Now in tliy morn forget not Him 

From whom each pure thought springs! 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



2M 



So m the onward vale of tears, 

Where'er tliy path may be, 
When strength hath bowed to evil years — 

He will remember thee. 



TO A YOUNGER CHILD 

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, SEPTEMBER 17, 1825. 

Where sucks the bee now 1 — Summer is flying 1 
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying: 



Violets are gone from the grassy dell. 
With the cowslip-cups, where the faries dwell; 
The rose from the garden hath passed away — 
Yet happy, fair boy ! is thy natal day. 

For love bids it welcome, the love wliich hath smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child! 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, 
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head 
Roses may vanish, but this will stay — 
Happy and bright is thy natal day. 



Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl' in- 
gegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all' uti- 
lita. L'Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquis- 
tano tutto di novi lumi dalle ricerche de' Saggi ; e 
il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, quand' 
altri v' aspira con piii giustizia giovando, sembra 
impresa dura e difficile. — Savioli. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 70. 
Na metade do Ceo subido ardia. 
High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam, 
The sun had reached the zenith of his reign, 
And for the living fount, the gelid stream, 
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : 

'Midst the dark foliage of the forest-shade, 
The birds had sheltered from the scorching ray; 
Hushed were their melodies — and grove and glade 
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay : 

When through the glassy vale a love-lorn swain, 
To seek the maid who but despised his pain, 
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion roved : 
"Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, 
" By whom thou art not loved 1" — and thus replied 
An echo's murmuring voice — " Thou art not 
loved!" 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 282. 
From Psahn CXXXVIL 
Na ribeira do Euprates cissenlado. 
Wrapt in sad musings by Euphrates' stream 
I sat, retracmg days for ever flown, 
While rose thine image on the exile's dream, 
much-loved Salem ! and thy glories gone. 
24 



When they, who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, 
Thus to their captive spoke, — "Why sleep thy lay si 
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled. 
And all thy triumphs in departed days 1 

" Know'st thou not. Harmony's resistless charm 
Can sooth each passion, and each grief disarm 1 
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye." 
With sighs I answered, — " When the cup of wo 
Is filled, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow, 
The mourner's cure is not to sing, — but die." 



CAMOENS. 

PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 

Se 14 no assento da maior alteza. 
If in thy glorious home above 
Thou still recallest earthly love, 
If yet retained a thought may be 
Of him whose heart hath bled for thee ; 

Remember still how deeply shrined 
Thine image in his joyless mind, 
Each well-known scene, each former care, 
Forgotten — thou alone art there ! 

Remember that thine eye-beam's lig'it 
Hath fled for ever from his sight, 
And, with that vanished sunshine, lost 
Is every hope he cherished most. 

Think that his life, from thee apart. 
Is all but weariness of heart. 
Each stream, whose music once was dear 
Now murmurs discords to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudle^.s rays 
Woke him to joy in other days. 
Now, m the light of beauty drest. 
Brings but new sorrows to his breas». 



254 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, 
The suu's meridian blaze is dim ; 
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve, 
But that her song still loves to grieve. 

All it hath been, his heart forgets, 
So altered by its long regrets ; 
Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, 
And joy's light spirit wakes no more. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 271. 

A formosura desta fresca serra. 

This mountain-scene, with sylvan grandeur 

crowned ; 
These chesnut-woods, in summer verdure bright : 
These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound 
Lulls every bosom to serene delight ; 

Soft on these hills the sun's decUning ray; 

This clime, where all is new ; these murmuring 

seas ; 
Flocks to the fold that bend their lingering way; 
Light clouds contending with the genial breeze ; 

And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense. 
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, 
Ne'er, in thy absence, can delight my breast ; 
Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles ; 
And joy may beam, yet, 'midst her brightest smiles, 
A secret grief is mine that w^ill not rest. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 186. 
Os olhos onde o castro Amor ardia. 
Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light. 
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show ; 
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright. 
Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow ; 

The rich redundance of that golden hair, 
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day; 
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, 
W"here now those treasures'? — mouldering into 
clay! 

T hus, like some blossom prematurely torn. 
Hath young Perfection withered in its morn. 
Touched by the hand that gathers but to blight ! 
Oh! how could Love survive his bitter tears'? 
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres. 
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless 
niaht ' 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 108. 
Brandas aguaa do Tejo qw passando. 
Fair Tajo! thou, whose calmly-flowing tide 
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 
Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide. 
Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs, and 
swains: 

Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps again 
Shall tread thy shores ; and while to part I mourn, 
I have no hope to meliorate my pain, 
No dream that whispers — I may yet return ! 

My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings, and ordains despair, 
Commands me thus to leave thee and repine : 
And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh. 
And blend my tears with other waves than thine ! 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 23. 
TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 

Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao. 
Thou, to whose power my hopes, my joys, I give, 
O fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! 
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave. 
Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair I 

Yes ! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, 
Dark o'er thy head th' eternal billows roll ; 
But while one ray of life or thought is mine. 
Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. 

And if the tones of my uncultured song 

Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, 

Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure; 

Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, 

Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain. 

While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endura 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 19. 
Alma minha gentil, que te partists. 
Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown 
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 
Now is yon heaven eternally thine own. 
Whilst 1 deplore thy loss, a captive here. 

Oh ! if allowed in thy divine abode 
Of aught on earth an image to retain, 
Remember still the fervent love which glowed 
In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 



I 



And if thou deem that all my faithful grief, 
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, 
Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies! 
Oh 1 ask of Heaven, which called thee soon away, 
That I may join thee in those realms of day, 
Swifllv, as thou hast vanished from mine eyes. 



Que estranho caso de amor ! 

How strange a fate in love is mine ! 
How dearly prized the pains I feel ! 
Pangs that to rend my soul combine. 

With avarice I conceal : 
For did the world the tale divine. 
My lot would then be deeper wo, 
And mine is grief that none must know. 

To mortal ears I may not dare 
Unfold the cause, the pain I prove ; 
'T would plunge in ruin and despair 
Or me, or Iier I love. 
My soul delights alone to bear 
Her silent, unsuspected wo, 
And none shall pity, none shall know. 

Thus buried in my bosom's urn, 
Thus in my inmost heart concealed, 
Let me alone the secret mourn. 
In pangs unsoothed and unrevealed. 
For whether happiness or wo. 
Or life Oi death its power bestow, 
It is what none on earth must know. 



CAMOENS. 



SONNET 58. 



Sv «s penas com que Amor tao mal me trata. 

Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart, 
Yet long enough protract his votary's days. 
To see the lustre from those eyes depart, 
The lode-stars now,* that fascinate my gaze ; 

To see rude Time the living roses blight, 
That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold. 
And all unpitying, change thy tresses bright 
To silvery whiteness, from their native gold ; 

Oh ! then my heart an equal change will prove, 
And mourn the coldness that repelled my love, 
When tears and penitence will all be vain ; 
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, 
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, 
Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. 



"Your eyes are lode-stars." — Shakapeare. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNEl 178. 
ib. cantoi, j& chorei a dura guerra. 

Oft have I sung and mourned the bitter woe.M, 
Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, 
While he the tale forbade me to disclose. 
That taught his votaries their deluded state. 

Nymphs! who dispense Castalia's living stream, 
Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal. 
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, 
Each grief by love inflicted to reveal : 

That those, whose ardent hearts adore his sway, 
May hear experience breathe a warning lay. 
How false his smiles, his promises how vain! 
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire. 
When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive lyre, 
Forever hushed, shall slumber in your fane. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 80. 
Como quando do mar tempestuoeo. 

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, 
But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave. 
Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 

How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien 
No more shall lure him from the smiles of home 
Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 
Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to roam. 

Lady ! thus I, who vainly oft in flight 

Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight. 

Make the firm vow, to shun thee and be free: 

But my fond heart, devoted to its chain. 

Still draws me back where countless perils reign, 

And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 239. 

From Psalm CXXXVn. 

Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando. 

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears 
Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee, 
O hallowed Sion ! and the vanished years, 
When Israel's chosen sons were blest at d free • 

Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung 
Mute on the willows of the stranger's land ; 
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung. 
Our foes demanded from their captive-band. 



2b6 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



How shall our voices, on a foreign shore, 

(We answered those whose chains the exile wore,) 

The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew? 

If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil, 

Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil! 

May my right-hand forget its cunning too! 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 128. 

Huma admiravel herva se conhece. 

There blooms a plant, whose gaze, from hour to 

hour, 
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, 
Wakes, when Creation hails his dawning power, 
And most expands, when most her idol burns; 

But when he seeks the bosom of the deep. 
His faithful plant's reflected charms decay ; 
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discoloured weep, 
Still fondly pining for the vanished ray. 

Thou whom I love, the daystar of my sight ! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, 
Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower : 
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms. 
And of their light deprived, in grief consumes. 
Born but to live within thine eye-beams power. 



Polo meu apartamento. 

A^nDST the bitter tears that fell 

In anguish at my last farewell. 

Oh ! who would dream that joy could dwell, 

To make that moment bright 1 
Yet be my judge, each heart ! and say. 
Which then could most ray bosom sway, 

Affliction, or delight 7 

It was, when Hope, opprest with woes, 
Seemed her dim eyes in death to close. 
That Rapture's brightest beam arose 

In Sorrow's darkest night. 
Thus, if ray soul survive that hour, 
'T is that my fate o'ercame the power 

Of anguish with delight. 

For oh ! ner love, so long unknown, 
She then confest, was all my own, 
And in that parting hour alone 

Revealed it to my sight. 
i*.nd now what pangs will rend my soul, 
Whould fortune still, with stern control, 

Forlid me this delight. 

I Know not if my bhss were vain. 
For all the force of parting pain 
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, 
When exiled from her sight : 



Yet now what double wo for me, 
Just at the close of eve, to see 

The dayspring of delight. 



CAMOENS, 

SONNET 205. 
Quern diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso. 
He who proclaims that Love is light and vain, 
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways; 
Ah ! sure too well hath merited his pain, 
Too justly finds him all he thus portrays. 

For Love is pitying. Love is soft and kind ; 
Believe not him who dares the tale oppose , 
Oh ! deem him one whom stormy passions bli»»d. 
One to whom earth and heaven may well be tt>es 

If Love bring evils, view them all in me ! 

Here let the world his utmost rigour see, 

His utmost power exerted to annoy: 

But all his ire is still the ire of Love; 

And such delight in all his woes I prove, 

I would not change their pangs for aught of othe' 

joy! 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 133. 

Doces, e claras aguas do Mondego. 

Waves of Mondego ! brilliant and serene. 
Haunts of my thought, where memory foiidl 

strays ; 
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, 
Witching my soul, in long-departed days; 

Yes ! I forsake your banks ; but still my heart 
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, 
And, suffering not one image to depart, 
Find lengthening distance but endear you more. 

Let fortune's will, through many a future day, 
To distant realms this mortal frame convey. 
Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave ! 
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true. 
On thought's light passion still shall fly to you, 
And still, bright waters ! in your current lave. 



CAMOEN& 

SONNET 181. 

Onde acharei lugar tao apartada 
Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude, 
Where lonehness so undisturbed may reign, 
That not a step shall ever there intrude 
Of roving man, or nature's savage ?rain 1 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



^b-^i 



Sorr«, tangled thicket, desolate and drear, 
Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb. 
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, 
But darkly suited to my spirit's gloom? 

That there, 'midst frowning rocks, alone with grief 
Entombed in life, and hopeless of relief, 
In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes — 
For oh ! since nought my sorrows can allay, 
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, 
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 



CAMOENS. 

SONNET 278. 

Eu vivia de lagrimas isento. 

Exempt from every grief, 'twas mine to live 
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, 
A thousand jo}'s propitious Love can give. 
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine. 

Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, 
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power ; 
No care intruding to disturb my breast, 
I dwelt entranced in Love's Elysian bower: 

But Fate, such transports eager to destroy. 
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, 
And bade the phantoms of delight begone! 
Bs>de hope and happiness at once depart. 
And left but memory to distract my heart, 
P-'^iacing every hour of bliss for ever flown. 



CAMOENS. 

Mi nueve y dulce querella. 

No searching eye can pierce the veil 
That o'er my secret love is thrown; 
No outward signs reveal its tale. 

But to my bosom known. 
Thus, like the spark, whose vivid light, 
In the dark flint is hid from sight, 

It dwells mthin, alone. 



METASTASIO. 

Dunque si sfoga in pianto. 

In tears, the heart opprest with grief 

Gives language to its woes; 
In tears, its fulness flnds relief. 

When rajiture's tide o'erflows ! 
Who then unclouded bliss would seek 

On this terrestrial s[)here ; 
When e'en Delight can only speak, 

Like Sorrow — in a tear? 
24* 



vincenzio da fii.icaja. 
Italia, Italia ! O tu cui feo la sorte. 
Italia! thou, by lavish Nature graced 
With ill-starred beauty, which to thee hath been 
A fatal dowry, whose eflccts are traced 
In the deep sorrows graven on thy raien ; 

Oh! that more strength, or fewer charms were 

thine, 
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, 
Who seem to worship at thy beauty's shrine, 
Then leave thee to the death- pang's bitterness! 

Not then the herds of Gaul would drain the tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blood hatli dyed; 
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renewed, 
Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield a foreign 

brand, 
Nor flght thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still doomed to serve, subduing or subdued I 



PASTORINI. 
Geneva mia, se con asciutto ciglio. 
If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 
My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye. 
Think not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold, 
But know — I deem rebellious every sigh ! 

Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey. 
Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot micrht ! 
And in each trace of devastation's way 
Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sighj. 

Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine! 
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, 
While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. 
And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies. 
To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, 
"Hail I though in ruins, thou weri ne'er In 
chains .'" 



LOPE DE VEGA. 
Estese el cortesano. 

Let the vain courtier waste his days, 
Lured by the charms tliat wealth displays, 

The couch of down, the board of costly fare; 
Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand. 
That waves the sceptre of command. 

And rear full many a palace in the air; 
Wliilst I enjoy, all unconfincd, 
The glowing sun, the genial wind. 

And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned; 
And prize for more, in peace and health, 

Contented indigence, than joyless wealth , 



258 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Not mine m Fortune's face to bend, 

At Grandeur's altar to attend, 
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; 

Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
With Fame's bright phantom. Glory's deathless 
crown ! 

Nectareous draughts and viands pure, 

Luxuriant nature will ensure ; 

These the clear fount, and fertile field, 

Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 

And when repose and visions reign, 
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the 
swain. 



FRANCISCO MANUEL. 

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO 
A CONVENT. 

No baxes temeroso, o peregrino. 

Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim, here; 
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side; 
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear. 
To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. 

Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, 
So near the mansions of supreme delight; 
Pause not — but tread this consecrated road, 
T is the dark basis of the heavenly height. 

Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way. 
How many a fountain glitters down the hill ! 
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, 
Bright sunshine guides — and wilt thou linger 

stUl? 
Oh ! enter there, where, freed from human strife, 
Hope is reality, and time is life. 



Oh 1 now, since F ^rtune gilds their brighteninaf 

day, 
Let not those virtues languish and decay, 
O'erwhelmed by luxury, and by wealth opprest! 



IL MARCHESE CORNELIO EENTIVOGLIO. 
L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso. 
The sainted spirit, which from bliss on high 
Descends like dayspring to my favoured sight 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sk)'. 
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! 

But with the sweetness of her well-known smile. 
That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, 
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while^ 
And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. 

Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold. 
And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold 
To soar with her and mingle with the blest ! 
But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies. 
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies. 
Fall to my native sphere by earthly bonds deprest 



METASTASIO. 



DELLA CASA. 

VENICE. 

Quest! palazzi, e quesie logge or colte. 

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced 
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian 

stone. 
Were once rude cabins 'midst a lonely waste. 
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 

Pure from each vice, 't was here a virtuous train, 
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ; 
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign. 
They sought these island-precincts — to be free. 

Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose. 
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; 
Fiaud, more than death abhorred each artless 
bvea&t : 



Al furor d'avversa sorte. 
He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien, 
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude. 
Whose soul hath learned, through many a trynig 

scene, 
To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued. 

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, 
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: 
Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict forms 
The lofty spirit and enduring heart ! 



METASTASIO. 

Quella onda che ruina. 

The torrent-wave, that breaks with force 
Impetuous down the Alpine height. 
Complains and struggles in its course, 
But sparkles, as the diamond bright. 

The stream in shadowy valley deep 
May slumber in its narrow bed; 
But silent in unbroken sleep. 
Its lustre and its life are fled. 



METASTASIO. 
Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie. 
Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand. 
Her fostering dews the morning lightly shed. 
Whilst gales of balmly breath thy blossoms fanned, 
And o'er thy leaves the soft sufiiision spreaa ; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



250 



riml liand whose care withdrew thee from the 

f;fOUIRl, 

To liriirliter worlds thy favoured charms hath 

bo rue; 
Thy lairest buds, with grace perennial crowned, 
Tlierc breathe and bloom, released from every 

thorn. 

Thus, for removed, and now, transplanted flower! 
Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, 
Sheltered with tenderest care from frost or shower, 
And each rough season's chill vicissitude, 
Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume 
Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. 



METASTASIO. 

Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine. 

Fortune ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread. 

Obstruct each path with thorns and rocks like 

these 1 
Think'st thou that I thy threatening mien shall 

dread. 
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize? 

Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, 
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway ! 
My constant soul could triumph unsubdued. 
Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 

Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried ; 
No! I have long thine utmost power defied, 
And drawn fresh energies from every fight. 
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, 
With each successive shock the tempered steel 
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. 



METASTASIO. 

Parlagli d' un periglio. 
WoTiLDST thou to Love of danger speak 1 — 
Veiled are his eyes, to perils blind ! 
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek? — 
He is a child of wayward mind ! 

But with a doubt, a jealous fear. 
Inspire him once — the task is o'er; 
His mind is keen, his sight is clear. 
No more an infant, blind no more. 



METASTASIO. 

Sprezza il furor del vento. 

Unbending 'midst the wintry skies. 

Rears the firm oak his vigorous form. 

And stern in rugged strength, defies 

The rushing of the storm; 



Then severed from his native shore, 
O'er ocean-worlds tlie sail to bear, 
Still witli those winds he braved before, 
He proudly struggles there. 



METASTASIO. 
So! puo dir che sia contento. 
Oh ! those aione, whose severed hearts 
Have mourned through lingering years in vain, 
Can tell what bliss fond love imparts. 
When Fate unites them once again: 

Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear. 
Whose language hails that moment bright, 
When past afflictions but endear 
The presence of delight ! 



METASTASIO. 
Ah ! frenate '1 pianto imbelle. 

Ah ! cease — those fruitless tears restrain 
I go misfortune to defy. 
To smile at fate with proud disdain, 
To triumph — not to die ! 

I with fresh laurels go to crown 
My closing days at last, 
Securing all the bright renown 
Acquired in dangers past. 



ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 

Buscas en Roma i Roma, 6 peregrine! 
Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thou 

Rome? 
Vain is thy search — the pomp of Rome is fled; 
Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; 
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 

That hill where Ctesars dwelt in other days 
Forsaken mourns, where once it towered sub- 
lime; 
Each mouldering medal now far less displays 
The triumphs won by Latium, than by Time. 

Tiber alone survives — the passing wave. 

That batlied her towers, now murmurs by hoi 

grave. 
Wailing, with plaintive sounds, her fallen fanes. 
Rome! of thine ancient grandeur aii jS past. 
That seemed for years eternal framed to la.st, 
I Nought but the wave a fugitive — remai"is. 



EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. 

Tu, que la dulce vida en tiemos anos. 
Thou, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers, 
In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, 
Lpaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, 
For the rude convent-garb, and couch of thorn; 

Thou that, escaping from a world ot cares, 
Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane, 
As to the port the fearful bark repairs. 
To shun the midnight perils of the main; 

Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, 
While on thy soul the beams of glory rise ! 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore. 
With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies; 
Oh! how shouldst thou the exulting psan raise. 
Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze. 



TORaUATO TASSO. 

Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa. 
Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose, 
To the mild sunshine only half displayed. 
That shunned us bashful graces to disclose, 
And in its vale of verdure sought a shade; 

Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so bright,) 

Aurora, smiUng from her tranquil sphere, 

O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light; 

Now riper years have doomed no grace to fade, 
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride arrayed. 
Excel, or equal thy neglected form. 
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, 
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour. 
More brilhant shines, in genial radiance warm. 



BERNARDO TASSO. 

Quest' ombra che giammai non vide il sole. 

This green recess, where through the bowery 

gloom 
Ne'er e'en at noontide hours the sunbeam played. 
Where violet beds in soft luxuriance bloom, 
'Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle-shade ; 

Where through the grass a sparkling fountain 

steals, 
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, 
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals. 
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose ; 

This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, 
God of soft slumbers, and of visions fair ! 
A lOwly shepherd consecrates to thee ! 



Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close. 
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-dropo 
never free. 



PieTRARCH. 

Chi vuol veaar quamunque pud natura. 
Thou that wouldst mark, m forn? of human birth, 
All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, 
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, 
Dazzling not me alone, but all mankind: 

And haste! for death, who spares the guilty long, 
First calls the brightest and the best away ; 
And to her home, amidst the cherub-throng 
The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay ! 

Haste! and each outward charm, each menta? 

grace. 
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, 
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair ! 
Then thou shalt own, how faint my votive lays. 
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze — 
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde. 
If to the sighing breeze of summer-hours 
Bend the green leaves ; if mourns a plaintive bird 
Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with 

flowers. 
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard 

Her, whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, 
I see and hear: though dwelHng far above, 
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, 
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love, 

" Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day," 
(Her gentle accents thus divinely say,) 
" While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows! 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, 
Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light 
Whose eyes but opened, when they seemed to 
close !'' 



VERSI SPAGNOOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO. 
O Muerte ! que sueles ser. 
Thou, the stern monarch of dismay; 
Whom nature trembles to survey. 
Oh Death ! to me, the child of grief, 
Thy welcome power would bring relief, 
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care 
And though thy stroke may thrill with pan- 
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein ; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



2bl 



The pangs that bid existence close, I And whisper, when her eyes unveil, 

Ah! sure are far less keen than those, JThat I, since morning's earliest call, 

W^hich cloud its lingering moments with despair. Have sighed her name to every gale, 

By the lone waterfall. 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 

O Zefiretto, clie movendo vai. * 

SvLPH of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light 
Wave gently round the tree I planted here. 
Sacred to her, whose soul hath winged its flight 
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere ; 

Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale ! 
To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour; 
Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail 
To rend its honovirs from the sylvan bower. 

Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, 
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm. 
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree ! 
So may thy lord, the monarch of the wind, 
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind. 
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and 
free! 



GESSNER. 

MORNING SONG. 
Wilkommen, fruhe morgensonn. 

Haii^! morning sun, thus early bright; 
Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day! 
Through the dark woods that fringe the height 
Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray. 

Bright on the dew, it sparkles clear, 

Bright on the water's glittering fall. 

And life, and joy, and health appear, 

Sweet morning ! at thy call. 

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring 
From beds of fragrance, where they lay, 
And roving wild on dewy wing, 
Drive slumber far away. 

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, 
Nov/ from each mind withdraw their spell, 
While the young loves delighted meet, 
On Rosa's check to dwell. 

Speed zephyr! kiss each opening flower, 
Its fragrant spirit make thine own; 
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower, 
Ere her light sleep is flown. 

There, o'er her downy pillow, fly, 
Wake the sweet maid to life and day; 
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh. 
And o'er her bosom i)lay; 



GERMAN SONG. 

* Madchen, lernet Amor kennen. 
Listen, fair maid, my song shall tell 
How Love may still be known full well, 

His looks the traitor prove: 
Dost thou not see that absent smile, 
That fiery glance replete with guile"? 

Oh! doubt not then — "t is Love. 

When varying still the sly disguise, 
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries. 

Or with complaint would move ; 
To day is bold, to-morrow shy, 
Changing each hour, he knows not why, 

Oh ! doubt not then — 't is Love. 

There's magic in his every wile. 
His hps, well practised to beguile. 

Breathe roses when they move ; 
See, now with sudden rage he burns, 
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns; 

Oh 1 doubt not then — 't is Love. 

He comes, without the bow and dart. 
That spare not e'en the purest heart ; 

His looks the traitor prove ; 
That glance is fire, that mien is guile. 
Deceit is lurking in that smile. 

Oh! trust him not — 't is Love! 



CHAULIEU. 

Grotte, d'ou sort se clair ruisseau. 
Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, 
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, 
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring 
Peace to thy musing hours. 

Sweet Fontenay! where first for me 
The day-spring of existence rose, 
Soon shall my dust return to thee, 
■ And 'midst my sires repose. 

Muses, that watched my childhood's morn, 
'Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye, 
Fair trees, that here beheld me born. 
Soon shall ye see me die. 



GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 
Coged dc vuestra alegre primavera. 
Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May, 
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way. 
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow 
The rose will fade when storms assail the year. 
And Time, who changeth not his swift career 
Constant in this, will cliange all else below' 



io2 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE TREASURES OP THE DEEP. 
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves %nd cells 1 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main! 
— Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured 

shells, 
Bright things which gleam unrecked-of, and in 

vain! 
—Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth 

untold. 
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies! 
— Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 

main! 

Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! thy waves have 

rolled 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old. 
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. 
—Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play! 

Man yields them to decay. 
Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! 
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar. 
The battle-thunders will not break their rest. 
— Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 

Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long, 
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless 

gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! 
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 

But all is not thine own. ^ 
To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head. 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 

crown, 
— Yet must thou hear a voice — restore the dead! 
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! 
— Restore the dead, thou sea ! 



BRING FLOWERS. 

BiMNG flowers, young flowers, for the festfi. board, 
'J o wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured ; 
Br-Jig flowers! they are springing in wood and 

vale, 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 



And the touch of the sunbeam hath ;vaked the 

rose, - 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path- 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath! 
He comes with the spoils of nations back. 
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track. 
The turf looks red where he won the day — 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell; 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye: 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
And a dream of his youth — bring him flowers, 
wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to weai .' 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth 1 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth. 
Her place is now by another's side — 
Bring flc wers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 

Briug flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 
A crown for the brow of the early dead ! ^ 
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose 

burst, 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed. 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
They are love's last gift— bring ye flowers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

prayer. 
They are nature's oflfering, their place is there! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part, 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. 
They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright 

flowers ! 



THE CRUSADER'S RETURN 



"Alas! the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
In his wan cheeks and sanburnt hair, 

She had not known her chikL" 

Marmion. 

Rest, pilgrim, rest ! — thou 'rt from the Syrian land 
Thou 'rt from the wild and wondrous east 1 know 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



263 



By the long-withered palm-branch in t.hy hand, 
And by the darkness of tliy sunburnt brow. 
Alasl the bright, the beautiful, who part. 
So full of hope, for tiiat far country's bourne! 
Al.is! the weary and the changed in heart, 
And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return! 

Thou 'rt faint — stay, rest thee from thy toils at 

last. 
Through the high chesnuts lightly plays the 

breeze. 
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is passed, 
The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou 'rt faint and worn — heas'st thou the foun- 
tain welling 
By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine 1 
Seest thou the dewy grapes, before thee swelling 1 
— He that hath left me trained that loaded vine ! 

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 
(Oh ! hath a day fled since his childhood's time'?) 
That I might sit and hear the sound I love, 
Beneath its shade — the convent's vesper-chime. 
And sit thou there ! — for he was gentle ever ; 
With his glad voice he would have welcomed 

thee. 
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parched lips' 

fever — 
— There in his place thou 'rt resting — where is he 1 

If I could hear that laughing voice again, 

But once again! — how oft it wanders by. 

In the still hours, like some remembered strain, 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! 

— Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou 

seen 
In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth — my Guido — with the fiery mien, 
And the dark eye of this Italian shore 1 

The dark, clear, lightning eye ! — on Heaven and 

earth 
It smiled — as if man were not dust — it smiled ! 
The very air seemed kindling with his mirth. 
And I — my heart grew young before my child ! 
My blessed child ! — I had but him — yet he 
Filled all my home e'en with o'erflowing joy. 
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free — 
— Where is he now 1 — my pride, my flower, my boy ! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight. 
Like a s[iring dew-drop — then his forehead wore 
A prouder look — his eye a keener light — 
— I knew these woods might be his world no more ! 
He loved me — but ho left me ! — thus they go, 
Whom we have reared, watched, blessed, too much 

adored ! 
He heai-d the trumpet of the red-cross blow. 
And bounded from me with his father's sword ! 



Thou weep'st — I tremble — thouhast seen the slain 
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair, 
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 
Where hosts have met — speak ! answer ! — was he 

there 1 
Oh ! hath hia smile departed ? — Could the grave 
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless glee 7 
— No I I sliall yet behold his dark locks wave — 
That look gives hope — I knew it could not be ! 

Still weep'st thou, wanderer? — some fond mother's 

glance 
O'er thee too brooded in thine early years — 
Think 'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, 
Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears'? 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! — what art thou ] 
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on 1 
Look up I — oh ! is it — that wan cheek and brow ! — 
Is it — alas ! yet joy ! — my son, ray son ! 



THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF 
A SPIRIT. 

FROAI THE GERMAN OP SCHILLER. 

This Song is said to have been composed by Schiller in an- 
swer to ihe inquiries of his friends respecting the fate of 
Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the 
tragedy of "WaJlenstein'a Death," after her resolution to vi- 
sit the grave of her lover is made known 

" 'Tis not merely 

The human being's pride that peoples space 
With life and mystical predominance ; 
Since likewise for the stricken heai't of love 
This visible nature, and this common world, 
Are all too narrow." 

Coleridge's Translation of Wallenstein. 

Ask'st thou my home'? — my pathway wouldst 

thou know. 
When from thine eye my floating shadow passed 1 
Was not my work fulfilled and closed below 1 
Had I not lived and loved 7 — my lot was cast. 

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone, 

That melting into song her soul away, 

Gave the spring-breeze what witched thee in its 

tonel 
— But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay! 

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found'! 
■ — -Yes ! we are one, oh ! trast me, we have met. 
Where nought again may part what love hath bound 
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. 

There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest, 
If as our love thy love is pure and true ! 
There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest. 
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue 



" Wallenstein. 



2G4 



M.RS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And well he feels, no error of the dust 
Drew to the stars of Heaven his mortal ken, 
Theie it is with us, e'en as is our trust, 
He thar believes, is near the holy then. 

There shall each feeling beautiful and high, 
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day; 
— Oh ! fear thou not to dream with waking eye ! 
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play. 



THE REVELLERS. 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 
They are here — the fair face and the careless heart. 
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 
— But I met a dimly mournful glance, 
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 
I heard the tone of heavy sigh, 
In a pause of the thriihng melody ! 
And it is not well that wo should breathe 
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath ! 
— Ye that to thought or to frief belong, 
Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — but who art ihou 

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow. 

And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 

In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? 

— Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too 

well! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ; 
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth. 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee — 
— Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

But what dost tho7i with the Revel's train 1 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou have find rest 7 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth — 
— Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring forth again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

- But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, 

And thy cup he crowned with the foaming wine, 

By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, 

By thine eye's quick flash thrDugh its troubled cloud. 



j I know thee ! — it is but the wakeful fear 
j Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I knov/ thee ! — thou fearest the solemn night. 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might i 
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst 

shun. 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — awayi 
— Back to thy home and pray ! 

Ring, joyous cliords ! — ring out again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

And bring fresh wreaths ! — we will banish all 

Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 

On through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! 

— But wliere are the young and the lovely? — 

gone ! 
Where are the brows with the red rose crowned. 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound? 
And the wavmg locks and the flying feet. 
That still should be where the mirthful meet ! 
— They are gone — they are fled — they are parted 

all— 

— Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



THE CONaUEROR'S SLEEP. 

Sleep 'midst thy banners furled ! 
Yes ! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the 

world ! 
Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast — 
— Oh ! strong is night — for thou too art at rest ! 

Stillness hath smoothed thy brow. 
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee. 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh 

thee. 
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers ! — now the field is won, 
Break not the rest of nature's weary son ! 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Back from thy stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 
To the green places of thy boyish daring, 
And all the windings of thy native stream; 
— Why, this were joy ! — upon the tented plain, 
Drearn on, thou Conqueror 1 — be a child again! 

But thou wilt wake at morn, 
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, 
And thy dark troubled thoughts, all earth o'er- 

sweeping, 
— So wilt thou rise, oh ! thou of woman born ! 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee — the tired one, slumbering there J 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



269 



Why, so the peasant sleeps 
Beneath his vine! — and man must kneel before 

thee, 
Ami tor his birthriijht vainly still implore thee! 
Shalt thou be stayed because thy brother weeps"? 
— Wake! and forgot that 'midst a dreaming world, 
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furled ! 

Forget that thou, e'en thou, 
Hast feebly shivered when the wind passed o'er 

thee, 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee. 
And felt the night-dew chill tliy fevered brow ! 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on ! 
— Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 



OUR LADY'S WELL* 

Fount of the woods ! thou art hid no more, 
From Heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore! 
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls, 
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls; 
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass. 
As the boughs are swayed o'er thy silvery glass ; 
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown. 
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone; 
And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain — 
Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 

Fount of the vale ! thou art sought no more 
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore, 
Wlien he came from afar, his beads to tell, 
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. 
Tliere is heard no Ave through thy bowers, 
Tliou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water-flowers! 
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, 
And there may the reaper his forehead lave, 
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain — 
— Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 

Fount of the Virgin's ruined shrine ! 

A voice that speaks of the past is thine ! 

It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh, 

With the notes that ring through the laughing 

sky; 
'Midst the mirtliful song of the summer-bird, 
And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard! 
—Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, 
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling freel 

-'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain — 
He hath made thee nature's own again ! 

Fount of the chapel with ages gray ! 
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay ! 



Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, 
And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now ! 
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought 
In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought; 
If peace to the mourner hath here been given. 
Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to Heaven, 
Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall reign, 
Who hath made thee nature's own again 1 



■ A beautiful spring in the woods near St. A-sanh, formerly 
covered in with a ctmpel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to 
the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, mucli tlie resort of pil- 
grims. 

T 25 



ELYSIUM. 



"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes 
and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished 
on earth ; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower 
classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, 
were banished to the infernal regions." 

Chateaubriand, Gtnit du Christianisme. 



Fair wert thou, in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, 
And summer-winds, and low-toned silvery streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers ! 

Where, as they passed, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ' 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast. 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep Eolian sound went oy, 
From fountain-voices in their secret glades, 
And low re^d-whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh ! 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light 

breath. 
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death 1 

And the transparent sky 
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain, 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewildering music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread. 
Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodell 
Who. called and severed from the countless dead 
Amidst the shadowy Amatanth-bowers might 
dwell. 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhaie 
The spirit wandering in th' immortal galel 



266 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



They of the sword, whose praise, j Not where thy soft winds played, 

With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! 

round ! Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade ' 

They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays I From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep^ 

On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound, ; And bade man cease to weep! 

And in all reo-ions found j Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove, 

Their echoes 'midst the mountains !— and become Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love I 
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home ! 



They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied; 



For the most loved are they. 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice 
In regal halls! — the shades o'erhang their way, 



Whose flight through stars, aird seas, and depths The vale, with its deep fountains, is their clioice, 



had sought 
The sours fiiv birth-place — but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died, 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams. 
Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams. 

But they, of whose abode 
'Midst her green valleys earth retained no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A void and silent place 



And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps! — till silently they die. 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye 

And the world knows not then. 
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! 
Yet these are they, that on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath 



The long-remembered dead ! 
I But not with thee might aught save glory dwell- 



In some sweet home;— thou hadst no wreaths for —Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel! 

these, 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees ! 



The peasant, at his door 
Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, 
And songs on every wind ! — From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head. 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, 
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! , 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years, 
As in the ashes of an urn compressed ; 

— He might not be thy guest ! 
No gpntle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whispered " Liberty !" 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier. 
Unlike a gift of nature to decay. 
Too lose-hke still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before its mother lay; 

E'en so to pass away. 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS; 



AN ANCIENT STATUE. 



"Debout, couronn6 de fleurs, les bras 61ev63 et posSs aui 
la tete, et le dos appuy^ contre un pin, ce g6nie se)nble ex- 
primer par son altitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs 
des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables." 

Visconti, Description des Antiques du Musie Royal. 



Tiiou shouldst be looked on when the starlight 

falls 
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air 
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls ; 
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
j To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 
I Were crowned of old, with pale spring-flowers like 
' these: 

With its bright smile! — Elysium! what wert thou, Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed. 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 
browl And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom 

Which of the grove seems breathing — not the 
Thou hadst no home, green land! i tomb. 

For the fair creature from her bosom gone, I 

With life's first flowers just opening in her hand. They feared not death, whose calm ind gracious 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, thought 

Which m its clear eye shone , Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee ! 

Like the spring's wakening !— but that light was They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, 
past — And laid thy head against the forest-tree, 

■ Where went the dew-drop, swept before the As that of one, by music's dreamy close, 
blast 'I ' On the wood- violets lulled to defip repose. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



26^ 



They feared not death!— yet who shall say his 

tciucli 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fairl 
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 
Of tender beauty as thy features wear? 
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee 7 — Did some fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? 
-His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy. 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed! 
And his eye veiled so softly by its fringe, 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge? 

Oh ! happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made knovyn its lessons from a brow like thine ! 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look, so tranquilly divine ! 
— Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart! 

But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of wo, 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old. 

That men poured out their gladdening spirit's 

flow, 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold. 
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king 
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is ours ! 
Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers. 
With fragrant wreaths and summer boughs ar- 
rayed. 
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. 

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 
O'er its dim precincts? — do we not entrust 
But for a time its chambers with our dead, 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust? 
— Why should we dwell on that which lies be- 
neath. 
When hving hght hath touched the brow of death 1 



DIRGE OF A CHILD. 

No bitter tears for thee be shed. 
Blossom of being! seen and gone! 
With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 

O blest departed one! 
Whose all of life, a rosy ray. 
Blushed into dawn, and passed away. 

Yes ! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 
To stain thy cherub soul and foim, 
Closed is tiie soft ephemeral flovver, 

That never felt a storm! 
The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, 
All that it knew from birth to death. 



Thou wert so like a form of light. 

That Heaven benignly called thee hence, 

Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 

O'er thy sweet innocence: 
And thou, that brighter home to bless, 
Art passed, with all thy loveliness ! • 

Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remained, 

Vision of beauty ! fair as brief! 

How soon thy brightness had been stained 

With passion or with grief! 
Now not a sullying breath can rise, 
To dim thy glory in the skies. 

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb, 

No sculptured image there shall mourn; 

Ah ! fitter far the vernal bloom 

Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be 
The only emblems meet for thee. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 
Adorned with Nature's brightest wreath. 
Each glowing season shall combine 

Its incense there to breathe ; 
And oft, upon the midnight air. 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 

And oh ! sometimes in visions blest, 

Sweet spirit ! visit our repose. 

And bear from thine own world of rest. 

Some balm for human woes! 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine, to messenger of Heaven ? 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

Son of the ocean isle ! 
Where sleep your mighty dead*? 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger! track the deep. 
Free, free, the white sail spread! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep^ 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains. 
By the pyramid o'erswayed. 
With fearful power the noon-day reigns, 
And tiie palm-trees yield no shade. 

But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfclt by those whose task is done, 
There slumber England's dead 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore, 
And far, by Ganges' banks at night 
Is heard the tiger's roar. 



268 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone ; 
' — There slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent-floods 

The western wilds among, 

And free, in green Columbia's woods, 

The hunter's bow is strung. 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ? 
There slumber England's dead ! 

The mountain-storms rise high 
In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-bougiis through the sky, 
Like rose-leaves on the breeze. 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the forest-wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won. 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 
'T is a dark and dreadful hour, 
When round the ship the ice-fields close, 
To chain her with their power. 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold-blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done, 
There slumber England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles. 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave? 

Go, stranger! track the deep. 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 



I How shall we mourn thee 1 — With a lofty trust. 

Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of 
love. 
And yet can weep! — for nature thus deplores 
The friend that leaves us, though for happiei 
shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier. 
One strain of solemn rapture be allowed — 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career. 
Not to decay, but unto death, hast bowed: 

In those bright regions of the rising sun, 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won. 

Praise! for yet one more name with power en 
dowed, 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press; 
Yet one more image, on the heart bestowed, 

To dwell there, beautiful in holiness ! 
Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from tb« 

dead. 
Shines as the star which to the Saviour led. 



TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER. 

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone. 
Of sainted genius called too soon away, 

Of light; from this world taken, while it shone 
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day; — 

How shall our griefs, if these things mournful be, 

Flow forth, oh! thou of many gifts, for theel 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

Child, amidst the flowers at play. 
While the red light fades away; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Called thy harvest-work to leave ; 
Pray! — ere yet the dark hours be. 
Lift the heart and bend the knee! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land 
Far from thine own household band ; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from ttiis world gone; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; 
Sailor, on the darkening sea — 
Lift the heart and hend the knee! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ! 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial plain: 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh. 
Kindred by one holy tie, 
Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee! 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 



Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard7 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power. 
Have we not felt its breath in every word. 

Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower 1 I come, I come! ye have called me long, 

Yes! m our hearts thy fervent thoughts have I come o'er the mountains with light and song 

burned Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 

Of Heaven they were, and thither have returned. By the winds which IlU of the violet's birth, 



U- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



2G'J 



Bj' ll>e primrose-sUirs in the shadowy grass, 
By thv; green leaves, opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the south, and the chesuut 

flowers 
By thousands liave burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; 
• — But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom. 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! i 

I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north, 
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
The fisher is out on the sunny sea. 
And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free, 
And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath 
been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing 

sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky; 
From the night-bird's lay through tiie starry time. 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the 

chain. 
They are sweeping on the silvery main. 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay. 
Come forth to the sunsliine, 1 may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men. 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains. 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features 

passed ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye. 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must 

die! 
—Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
Oh! what have ye looked on since last we n^etl 

Ye are changed, ye arc changed !--and I see not 

here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ; 
25* 



There were graceful heads, with their ringlets 

bright. 
Which tossed in the breeze with a play of lignt, 
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flsw o'er the cowslip's head. 

As if for a banquet all earth was spread ; 

There were voices that rung through the sapphire 

sky, 
And had not a sound of mortality! 
Are they gonel is their mirth from the mountain.s 

passed 1 
— Ye have looked on death since ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now, 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow: 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace, 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race. 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down! 

They are gone from amongst you, the young and 

fair. 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
— But I know of a land where there falls no blight, 
I shall find them there with their eyes of hght 1 
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may 

dwell, 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne. 
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
For me, I depart to a brighter shore, 
Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. 
I go where the loved who have left you dwell. 
And the flowers are not Death's — fare ye well, fart* 
well! 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 

FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast. 
And the woods, against a stormy sky. 

Their giant branches tost; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their br.rk 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted came, 
Not with the roil of tlie stirring drums. 

And the trum[)et tiiat sings of fame. 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloorn 

With their hynnis of lofty cheer. 



Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea ! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair, 

Amidst that pilgrim-band — 
Why had they come to wither there 

Away from their childhood's land 1 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar 1 

Bright jewels of the mine ] 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war 1 

— They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



[These glorious verses will find an eclio in the breast of 
fii'ery true descendant of the Pilgrims ; and give the name 
of their authoress a place in many hearts. She has laid our 
community under a common obligation of gratitude. Every 
one must fee! the sublimity and poetical truth, with which she 
lias conceived the scene presented, and the inspiration of that 
deep and holy strain of sentiment, which sounds forth like the 
pealing of an organ.] 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 

The rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain. 
When a young mother with her first-born thence 
Went up to Zion, for the boy was vowed 
Unto the Temple-service ;— by the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers. 
To bring before her God. So passed they on. 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon. 
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs. 

With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest; 

Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and 
watch 

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose. 

As at a red flower's heart. — And where a fount 



Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades, 

Making its banks green gems along the wild, 

There too she lingered, from the diamond wave 

Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, 

And softly parting clusters of jet curls 

To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reached, 

The Earth's One Sanctuary — and rapture hushed 

Her bosom, as before her, through the day, 

It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped 

In light, like floating gold. But when that hour 

Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 

Lifted, through rainbow-gleaminjr tears, his eye 

Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear 

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round 

her arm 
Clung as the ivy clings — the deep spring-tide 
Of Nature then swelled high, and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. — " Alas," she cried, 

" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me; 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart 1 

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert 

playing 
So late, along the mountains, at my side 7 

And I, in joyous pride. 
By every place of flowers my course delaying 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And oh ! the home whence thy bright smile 

hath parted. 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away? 
While through its chambers wandering, weary- 
hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 
Went hke a singing rill 1 

" Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet 

me. 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet 

me, 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, 
And watch for thy dear sake. 

" And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round 
thee. 

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed 1 
I Wilt thou not vainly spread 

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound 
I thee. 

To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 
i A cry which none shall hearl 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



271 



=' What have I said, my child 1— Will He not hear 

thee, 
Who the young ravens hearetli from their nest 1 

Shall He not guard thy rest, 
And, in the hush of holy miilnijrht near thee. 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy 7 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy ! 

" I give thee to thy God— the God that gave thee, 
A vvellspring of deep gladness to my heart! 

And precious as thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon. He sliall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! — I go, my soul may fail me. 
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks. 

Yearning for thy sweet looks — 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail 

me; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 
The Rock of Strength.— Farewell !" 



THE CHILD AND DOVE. 

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY's STATUE OF LADY 
LOUISA RUSSELL. 

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, 
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, 
And to fling bright dew from the morning back. 
Fair form 1 on each hnage of childhood's track. 

Thou art a thing to recall the hours. 

When the love of our souls was on leaves and 

flowers 
When a world was our own in some dim sweet 

grove. 
And treasure untold in one captive dove. 

Are they gone 1 can we think it, while thou art 

there, 
rhou joyous child with the clustering hairl 
Is it not Spring that indeed breathes free 
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on 

thee"? 

No ! never more may we smile as thou 
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow; 
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine. 

To have met the joy of thy speaking face. 
To have felt ihe spell of thy breezy grace. 
To have lingered before thee, and turned, and 

borne 
i)nc vision away of the cloudless morn. 



THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP, 

ON A MO^^;MENT BY CHANTREY FOR AN INFANT 
DAUGHTER OF SIR THOMAS ACKLAND. 

Thou sleepest — but when wilt thou wake, fair 

child? 
— When the fawn awakes 'midst the forest wild 1 
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of 

morn, 
When the first rich breath of the rose is bora 1 
— Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies 
Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes; 
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see — ■ 
When will the hour of thy rising bel 

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark 
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark — 
Grief with pain passionate tears hath wet 
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet 
Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest 
Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast ; 
And the glad Spring, cfdling out bird and bee, 
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee. 

Thou 'rt gone from us, bright one—that thou shouldst 

die. 
And life be left to the butterfly !* 
Thou 'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from th 

bough, 
— Oh ! for the world where thy home is now ! 
How may we love but in doubt and fear. 
How may we anchor our fond hearts here, 
How should e'en Joy but a trembler be, 
Beautiful dust ! when we look on thee 1 



THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

FROM " THE PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNFINISHED 
POEM. 

Thou seest her pictured with her shining hair, 
(Famed were its tresses in Provenfal song,) 
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair 
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. — A child's light hand is roving 
'Midst the rich curls, and oh ! how meekly loving 
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face. 
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace. — 
Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness. 
Than might beseem a mother's — on her brow 
Something too much there sits of native scoin, 
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow. 
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. 
— Thesemay be dreams — but howshall woman tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears'? — she fell' 

' A butterfly, as if fluttering on a flower, is sculpturori oo 
the monu0 en'. 



That mother left that jhild — went hurrying by 
Its cradle — haply, not without a sigh — 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung — but no ! it could not thus have been, 
For she went on I — fonook her home, her hearth, 
All pure affection, all <5weet household mirth, 
To live a gaudy and dishonoured thing, 
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life, 
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife ; 
He recked no more of glory — grief and shame 
Crushed out his fiery nature, and his name 
Died silently. — A shadow o'er his halls 
Crept year by year ; the minstrel passed their walls, 
The warder's horn hung mute; — meantime the child 
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, 
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew 
Into sad youth ; for well, too well she knew 
Her mother's tale ! — Its memory made the sky 
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye; 
Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain 
Would there have lingered; flushed her cheek to pain 
[f met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, 
E'en to the Spring'sglad voice. — Her own was low. 
And plaintive — oh ! there lie such depths of vio 
In a young blighted spirit. — Manhood rears 
A haughty brow, and Age has done with tears, 
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze 
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days; 
And thus it was with her. — A mournful sight 
In one so fair ; for she indeed was fair — 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light. 
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, 
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still, and meek. 
Still that fond child's — and oh ! the brow above. 
So pale and pure ! so formed for holy love 
To gaze upon in silence ! — but she felt 
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt 
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that called on 

Heaven 
To bless the young Isaure. 

One sunny morn. 
With alms before her castle gate she stood, 
'Midst peasant-groups ; when breathless and o'er- 

worn. 
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, 
A stranger through them broke — the orphan maid 
With her sweet voice, and proffered hand of aid, 
'I urned to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers ; a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 
By some strong passion in its gushing mood, 
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears 
As rain th« hoarded agonies of years 



From the heart's urn — and with her white lips presi 
The ground they trod — then, burying in her vest 
Her brow'sdeepflush, sobbed out, "Oh! undefiled 
I am thy mother ! — spurn me not, my child !" 

Isaure had prayed for that lost mother — wept 
O'er her stained memory, when the happy slept, 
In the hushed midnight ; stood with mournful gaze 
Before yon picture's smile of other days ; 
But never breathed in human ear the name 
Which weighed her bemg to the earth with shame 
What marvel if the anguish of surprise, 
The dark remembrances, the altered guise, 
Awhile o'erpowered her'? — from the weeper's touch 
She shrank — 't was but a moment — yet too much 
For that all humbled one — its mortal stroke 
Came down like lightning's, and hei full heart broke 
At once in silence. — Heavily and prone 
She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, 
Those long fair tresses — they still briglitly wore 
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no 

more — 
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled. 
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 

Her child bent o'er her — called her — 't was too late! 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate. — 
The joy of courts, tlie star of knight and bard — 
How didst thou fall, oh ! bright-haired Ermengarde 1 



TO THE IVY. 

OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAP GATHERED IN 
THE CASTLE OP RHEINFELS. 

Oh ! how could Fancy crown with thee, 

In ancient days, the god of wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be, 

Companion of the vine 1 
Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er; 
Where song's full notes once pealed around, 

But now are heard no more. 

The Roman, on his battle plains. 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
Entwined thee, with exulting strains, 

Around the victor's tent ; 
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, 

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,— 
Better thou lovest the silent scene, 

Around the victor's grave. 

Where sleep the sons of ages flown, 

The bards and heroes of the past, 
Where, through the halls of glory gone, 

Murmurs the wintry blast ; 
Where years are hastening to efface 

Each record of the grand and fair — 
Thou in thy solitary grace. 

Wreath ol liie tomb I art there. 



Oh ! many a temple, once sublime, 

Beneatli a blue, Italian sky, 
Hath nought of beauty left by tune, 

Save thy wild tapestry. 
And reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine 

To wave where banners waved of yore, 
O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, 

Along his rocky shore. 

High from the fields of air, look down 

Those eyries of a vanished race. 
Homes of the mighty, whose renown 

Hath passed and left no trace. 
But thou art there — thy foliage bright, 

Unchanged, the mountain-stonn can brave — 
Tliou that wilt climb the loftiest height. 

And deck the humblest grave. 

The breathing forms of Parian stone. 

That rise round Grandeur's marble halls; 
The vivid hues by painting thrown 

Rich o'er the glowing walls; 
Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes. 

In sculpured beauty waving fair. — 
These perish all — and what remains? — • 

Thou, thou alone art there. 

'T is still the same — where'er we tread, 

The wrecks of human power we see, 
The marvels of all ages fled, 

Left to Decay and thee. 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, grace, and strength — 
Days pass, thou " Ivy never sere,"* 

And all is thine at length. 



ON A LEAP FROM THE TOMB OF 
VIRGIL. 

And was thy home, pale withered thing, 

Beneath the rich blue southern sky7 
Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, 
The winds and suns of glorious Italy 1 

Those suns in golden light, e'en now, 
Look o'er the Poet's lonely grave, 

Those winds are breathing soft, but thou 
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt 
wave. 

The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow, 

May cluster in their purple bloom. 
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bounh 
Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb. 



"Ye mynles brown, and ivy never Bsie."—Li/cidas. 



Thy place is void — ohl none on earth. 
This crowded earth, may so remain. 
Save that which souls of loftiest birth 
Leave when they part, their brighter home to 
gain. 

Another leaf ere now hath sprung. 

On the green stem wliich once was thine — 
When shall another strain be sung 
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine] 



FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY 
RESTING ON A SKULL. 

Creature of air and light, 
Emblem of that which may not fade or die, 

Wilt thou not speed thy flight, 
To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky 1 

What lures thee thus to stay, 

With Silence and Decay, 
Fixed on the wreck of cold Mortality? 

The thoughts once chambered there. 
Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone- 
Will the dust tell us where 
They tliat have burst the prison-house are flown 1 
Rise, nursling of the day. 
If thou wouldst trace their way — 
Earth hath no voice to make the secret known. 

Who seeks the vanished bird 
By the forsaken nest and broken shell 7 — 

Far thence he sings unheard, 
Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell. 

Thou of the sunshine born. 

Take the bright wings of morn 1 
Thy hope calls heaven- ward from yon ruined cell. 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

" Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below." 

Byron. 

And is there glory from the heavens departed? 
— Oh! void unmarked! — thy sisters of the sky 

Still hold their place on high, 
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath 

started. 
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye. 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? 

She wears her crown of old magnificence. 

Though thou art exiled thence — 

No desert seems to part those urns of light, 

'Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense. 

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning- 
The shepherd greets them on his mounttooa 
free ; 
And from the silvery sea 



274 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for 
thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place 
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, 
Swept by the wind awayl 
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 
And was there power to smite them with decay? 

Why. who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven'? 
Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are, 
When from its height afar 
A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 
'^liines not the less for that one vanished star! 



THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON. 

I LAY upon the solemn plain 

And by the funeral mound. 
Where those who died not there in vain, 

Their place of sleep had found. 
T was silent where the free blood gushed, 

When Persia came arrayed — 
So many a voice had there been hushed, 

So many a footstep stayed. 

I slumbered on the lonely spot. 

So sanctified by Death — 
I slumbered — but my rest was not 

As theirs who lay beneath. 
For on my dreams, that shadowy hour. 

They rose — the chain less dead — 
All armed they sprang, in joy, in power 

Up from their grassy bed. 

I saw their spears, on that red field, 

Flash as in time gone by — 
Chased to the seas, without his shield 

I saw the Persian fly. 
I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast 

Called to another fight — 
From visions of our glorious past, 

Who doth not wake in mightl 



TROUBADOUR SONG. 

The vi'arrior crossed the ocean's foam, 
For_the stormy fields of war — 

The maid was left ",n a smiling home. 
And a sunny land afar. 

His \oice was heard where javelin showers 
Poured on the steel-clad line ; 

Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers. 
Her seat beneath the vine. 



His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stained his crest; 

While she — the gentlest wind of heaven 
Might scarcely fan her breast. 

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, 
And again he crossed the seas; 

But she had died, as roses die, 
That perish with a breeze. 

As roses die, when the blast is come. 
For all things bright and fair — 

There was death within the smiling home, 
How had death found her there ? 



THE TRUMPET. 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 

Light up the beacon pyre ! 
— A hundred hills have seen the brand 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And hark ! — was that the sound of seas'? 

— A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call. 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won. 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en for the marriage altar crowned. 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead"? 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. 

AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BT 
EDWARD I. 

The Hall of Harps is lone this night, 

And cold the chieftain's hearth ; 
It hath no mead, it hath np light, 
No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. 

And I depart — my wound is deep, 

My brethren long have died — 
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, 
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone, of pride. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



275 



Bear it, where on his battle-plain, 

Bcnoath the setting sun, 
Fie counts my country's noble slain — 
.Say to him — Saxon! — think not all iswon. 

Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, 

The minstrel's cbainless hand; 
Dreamer ! tbat numberest with the dead 
The burning spirit of the mountain-land. 

Think'st thou, because the song hath ceased, 

The soul of song is flown 1 
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast. 
It hved beside the ruddy hearth alone 1 

No ! by our names and by our blood, 

We leave it pure and free — 
Though hushed awhile, that sounding flood 
Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

We leave it, 'midst our country's wo, 

The birthright of her breast — 
We leave it, as we leave the snow, 
Bright and eternal, on Eryri's* crest. 

We leave it with our fame to dwell. 

Upon our children's breath — 
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell — 
The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. 

He dies — but yet the mountains stand, 

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide, 
And this is yet Eneurin'st land — 
Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride. 



THE WRECK. 

All night the booming minute-gun 

Had pealed along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A bark from India's coral strand. 

Before the raging blast, 
Had vailed her topsails to the sand. 

And bowed her noble mast. 

The queenly ship! — brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her — 
We saw her mighty cable riven. 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn, 

A star once o'er the seas — 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 

And sadder things than these. 

We saw her treasures cast away — 
The rocks with pearls were sown. 



Gryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon. 
Eneunn. a celebrated ancient Briush bard. 



And strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 

Like ashes by a breeze — 
And gorgeous robes — but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crushed reed thrown aside — 
Yet by that rigid hp and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept. 
But well our gushing hearts might say, 

That there a mother slept! 

For her pale arms a babe had prest. 

With such a wreathing grasp. 
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers clung, 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, 

Gleamed up the boy's dead face. 
Like Slumber's trustingly serene, 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head, 

With half shut violet eye — 
He had known little of her dread. 

Nought of her agony ! 

Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart, 

Through all things vainly true, 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou iiast another lot. 

There is some home for thee. 
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not 

The moaning of the sea! 



A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND 



-Ilis very heart athirst 



To gaze at Nature in her green array, 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed, 
With visions prompted by intense desire ; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find — 
He seeks them headlong, and is. seen no mora 

Cotpper, 

The hollow dash of waves! — the ceaseless roarl 
Silence, ye billows — vex my soul no more! 

There's a spring in the woods by my siuiii* 

home. 
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam; 



276 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 
A-S a song from the shore to the sailor's ear. 
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws, 
Through the feathery fern, and the oUve boughs, 
And the gleam on its path as it steals away 
Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed 
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, 
They haunt me !— 1 dream of that bright spring's 

flow, 
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe. 

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry, 
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by ! 

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 
Of leaves from the lime and the chesnut round 1 j 
Know ye it, brethren, where bowered it lies, 
Under the purple of southern skies 1 
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 
In through the cloud of its clustering vines, 
And the breath of the fainting myrtle-flowers, 
Borne from the mountains in dewy hours, 
And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening 
shades, \ 

Like shooting stars in the forest-glades. 
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall — 
Speak! — have ye known, have ye felt them all? 

The heavy-rolling surge, the rocking mast! \ 

Hush! — give my dream's deep music way, thou 

blast! j 

Oh ! the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth. 
The murmurs that live in the mountain-pines. 
The sighing of reeds as the day declines. 
The wmgs flitting home through the crimson 

glow 
That steeps the woods when the sun is low. 
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill 
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are 

still— 
I hear them! — around me they rise, they swell. 
They claim back my spirit with Hope to dwell. 
They come with a breath from the fresh spring- 
time, 
And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 

The white foam dashes high — away, away, 
Bhroud my green land no more, thou blinding 
spray ! 

It is there! — down the mountains I see the 

sweep 
Of ttie chesnut forests, the rich and deep; 
With the burden and glory of flowers that they 

wear, 
t loating upborne on the blue summer air, 
And the light pouring through them in tender 

g teams, 
And the flashing fcith of a thousand streams. 



— Hold me not, brethren, I go, I go. 

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtlees 

blow. 
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows 

rest. 
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast. 
To the rocks that resound with the water's 

play— 
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount — give way! 

Give way! — the booming surge, the tempest's roar, 
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more. 



THE GRAVE OF KORNER. 

Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young 
German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish 
with a detachment of French troops, on the 20th 
of August, 1813, a few hours after the composi- 
tion of his popular piece, " The Sword SongJ^' 
He was buried at the village of Wobbelin in 
Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess 
of which he had frequently deposited verses com- 
posed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. 
The monument erected to his memory is of cast 
iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and 
a sword, a favourite emblem of Korner's, from 
wiiich one of his works had been entitled. Near 
the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who 
died of grief for his loss, having only survived him 
long enough to complete his portrait, and a draw- 
ing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the ce- 
metery is engraved one of his own lines. 

"Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht." 
" Forget not the faithful Dead." 

See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburg and 
Korner's Prosaische Aufsiitze, von C. A. Tiedge. 



Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, 

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast. 
Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was poured, 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 

Rest, Bard, rest, Soldier ! — by the father's hand 
Here shall the child of after years be led, 

With his wreath-offering silently to stand. 
In the hushed presence of the glorious dead. 

Soldier and Bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With Freedom and with God.* 



• The poems of Korner, which were chiefly devoted to the 
cause of his country, are strikingly distinguished by i<;ligio>w 
feelings, and a confidence in the Supreme Justice for the fiiia) 
deliverance of Germany. 




The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite, 
On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore 
thee, 
A.nd with true hearts thy brethren of the fijjht 
Wept as they vailed their drooping banners o'er 
thee ; 
A.nd the deep guns with rolling peal gave tokea 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 

Thou hast a hero's tomb — a lowlier bed 
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying, 

Vhe gentle girl, that bowed her fair young head, 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 

Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave — 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others — but for her, 
To whom the wide world held that only spot — 

^he loved thee — lovely in your lives ye were, 
And in your early deaths divided not. 

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy — what hath she? 
— Her own best place by thee ! 

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made 

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, 

Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 

Ye were but two — and when that spirit passed, 
Wo to the one, the last ! 

Wo, yet not long — she lingered but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er — 
It answered her's no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled — 

What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted? — 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead. 

Softly she perished — be the Flower deplored, 
Here with the Lyre and Sword. 

Have ye not met ere now ? — so let those trust 

That meet for moments but to part for years. 

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from 

dust. 

That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 

Brother, sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell — 

Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell ! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side, 
They filled one home with glee — 

Their graves are severed far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 
26 



The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight- 
Where are those dreamers now 1 

Ont, 'midst the forests of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, 
He lies where pearls lie deep — 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest, 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colours round his breast, 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers. 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 
Beneath the same green tree; 

Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth — 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all. 

And nought beyond, Oh earth ! 



THE LAST WISH. 

Go to the forest shade. 

Seek thou the well-known glade 

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie ; 
Gleaming through moss-tufls deep, 
Like dark eyes filled with sleep. 

And bathed in hues of summer's midnight skj 

Bring me their buds, to shed 

Around my dying bed 
A breath of May, and of the wood's repose ; 

For I, in sooth, depart 

With a reluctant heart, 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glow* 

Fain would I stay with thee — 

Alas! this must not be; 
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 

Go where the fountain's breast 

Catches, in glassy rest, 
The dim green light that poars through 'auHJi 
bowers 




I know how softly bright, 

Steeped in that tender light, 
Thp water-lilies tremble there, e'en now ; 

Go to the pure stream's edge, 

And from its whispering sedge 
Bring me those flowers to cool my fevered brow. 

Then, as in hope's young days, 

Track thou the antique maze 
Of the rich garden, to its grassy mound ; 

There is a lone white rose. 

Shedding, in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

"Well know'st thou that fair tree ! 

— A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honied lime above ; 

Bring me one pearly flower, 

Of all its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first revealed our love ! 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last 

Through dim wood-lanes we passed. 
Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's 
spark. 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things, and fair — 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve ; 
Yet shall their odour soft 
One bright dream round me waft. 

Of life, youth, summer — all that I must leave ! 

And oh ! if thou wouldst ask. 

Wherefore thy steps 1 task 
The grove, the stream, tht hamlet-vale to trace ; 

— 'T is that some thought of me, 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each famihar place, 

I bid mine image dwell, 

(Oh I break thou not the spell !) 
In the deep wood, and by the fountain side — 

Thou must not, my beloved ! 

Rove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died. 



A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. 

■"he Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated 
«y his nephew, afterwards calledJohn tlie Parricide, was left 
V> die by the way -side, and was supported in his last moments 
by a female peasant, who happened to be passing. 

A MONARCH on his death-bed lay — 

Did censers waft perfume. 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray. 

Through his proud chamber's gloom 1 



He lay upon a greensward bed, 

Beneath a darkening sky — 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 

Had he then fallen, as warriors fall. 

Where spear strikes fire from spear 1 
Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier? — 
Not so — nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod. 
Where he, the helpless lord of realms. 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends, with words of cheer, 

And princely vassals nighl 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the fading eye 1 — 
A peasant girl, that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid ; 
And, shrinking not for woman's dread, 

The face of death surveyed. 

Alone she sat — from hill and wood 

Red sank the mournful sun ; 
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood. 

Treason its worst had done ! 
With her long hair she vainly pressed 

The wounds, to staunch their tide — 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast, 

Imperial Albert died ! 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

Day is for mortal care. 
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth. 

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
prayer — 
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour. 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming 
power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May ook like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own oh 1 Death. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



279 



We know when moons shall wane, 
When suininor-birds from farsliall cross the soa, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden 
grain- 
Bat who shall teach us when to look for thee? 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets liel 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale 7 — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home. 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend. 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets 
rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 



THE RELEASE OF TASSO. 

There came a bard to Rome ; he brought a lyre 
Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphant sky. 
To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre, 
Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high ; 
For on each chord had fallen the gift of fire, 
The living breath of Power and Victory — 
Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest. 
Sighed but to flee away, and be at rest. 

He brought a spirit whose ethereal birth 
Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had been 
Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth, 
Wild fairy-bowers, and groves of deathless green. 
And fields, where mail-clad bosoms prove their 

worth, 
When flashing swords light up the stormy scene — 
He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame, — 
The Cliild of Visions from a dungeon came. 

On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep. 

With starlight floating o'er their swells and falls. 

On the blue waters of the Adrian deep, 

His numbers had been sung — and in the halls. 

Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep. 

It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptured 

walls, — 
Had princes listened to those lofty strains, 
While the high soul they burst from, pined in chains. 

And in the summer-gardens, where the spray 
Of founts, far-glancing from their marble bed, 



! Rsiins on the flowering myrtles in its play, 
! And the sweet limes, and glassy leaves that spread 
Round the deep golden citrons — o'er his lay 
Dark eyes, dark, soft, Itahan eyes had shed 
Warm tears, fast-ghttering in that sun, whose light 
Was a forbidden glory to his sight. 

Oh ! if it be that wizard sign and spell, 
And talisman had power of old to bind, 
In the dark cluimbers of some cavern-cell, 
Or knotted oak, the spirits of the wind. 
Things of the lightning-pinion, wont to dwell 
High o'er the reach of eagles, and to find 
Joy in the rush of storms — even such a doom 
Was that high minstrel's in his dungeon-gloom. 

But he was free at last ! — the glorious land 
Of the white Alps and pine-crowned Apennines, 
Along whose shove the sapphire seas expand. 
And the wastes teem with myrtle, and the shrines 
Of long-forgotten gods from Nature's hand 
Receive bright offerings still ; with all its vines, 
And rocks, and ruins, clear before him lay — 
The seal was taken from the founts of day. 

The winds came o'er his cheek ; the soft winds, 

blending 
All summer-sounds and odours in their sigh; 
The orange-groves waved round; the hills were 

sending 
Their bright streams down; the free birds darting 

by, 

And the blue festal heavens above him bending. 
As if to fold a world where none could die ! 
And who was he that looked upon these things % 
— If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were 
wings 

To bear him o'er creation ! and whose mind 
Was as an air-harp, wakening to the sway 
Of sunny Nature's breathings unconfined, 
With all the mystic harmonies that lay 
Far in the slumber of its chords enshrined, 
Till the light breeze went thrilhng on its way, 
— There was no sound that wandered through 

the sk}'. 
But told him secrets in its melody. 

Was the deep forest lonely unto him 

With all its whispering leaves 1 Each dell ana 

glade 
Teemed with such forms as on the moss-clad brim 
Of fountains, in their sparry grottoes, played. 
Seen by the Greek of yore through twilight dim 
Or misty noontide in the laurel-shade. 
— There is no solitude on earth so deep 
As that where man decrees that man should weep • 

But oh! the life in Nature's green domains, 
The breathing sense of joy! where flower* am 
springing 



280 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



By starry thousands, on the slopes and plains, , | 
And the gray rocks — and all the arched woods 

ringing,. . j 

And the young branches trembling to the strains i 
Of wild-born creatures, through the sunshine 

winging 
Their fearless flight — and sylvan echoes round, 
Mingling all tones to one Eolian sound ; 

And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams, 

And the low cadence of the silvery sea. 

And reed-notes from the mountains, and the 

beams 
Of the warm sun — all these are for the free ! 
And they were his once more, the bard, whose 

dreams 
Their spirit still had haunted. — Could it be 
That he had borne the chain?— oh! wh» shall 

dare 
To say how much man's heart uncrushed may 

bear 7 

So deep a root hath hope!— but wo for this, 

Our frail mortality, that aught so bright. 

So almost burthened with excess of bliss. 

As the rich hour which back to summer's light 

Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss 

Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight 

Of the green earth, must so be bought with years 

Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears ; 

And feeding a slow fire on all its powers, 
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain^ 
If hardly won at length, too late made ours 
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain 
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers 
Which withered in the noontide, ne'er again 
To lift their heads in glory. — So doth Earth 
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth. 

The sailor dies in sight of that green shore. 
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seemed to lie 
On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar 
Called up to sunlight by his fantasy — 
And, when the shining desert-mists that wore 
The lake's bright semblance, have been all passed 

by, 

The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain- wave, 
Which flashes from its rock, too late to save. 

Or if we live, if that, too dearly bought. 

And made too precious by long hopes and fears. 

Remains our own — love, darkened and o'er- 

wrought 
By memory of privation, love, which wears 
And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought, 
Becomes the shadow of our closing years, 
Making it almost misery to possess 
Autfht, watched with such unquiet tenderness. 
Sucn unto him, the bard, the worn and wild, 
^nd sick with hope deferred, from whom the sky, 



With all its clouds in burning glory piled, 
Had been shut out by long captivity; 
Such, freedom was to Tasso. — As a child 
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye 
In its too radiant glance, from day to day, 
Reads that which calls the brightest first away. 

And he became a wanderer — in whose breast 
Wild fear, which, e'en when every sense doth 

sleep. 
Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest, 
Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep 
Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest 
O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep 
In cavern-tomb, and sought, through shades and 

stealth, 
By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth. 

But wo for those who trample o'er a mind! 

A deathless thing. — They know not v^fhat they do, 

Or what they deal vnth! — Man perchance may 

bind 
The flower his step hath bruised ; or light anew 
The torch he quenches; or to music wind 
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew — 
But for the soul! — oh! tremble, and beware 
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there! 

For blindness wraps that world — our touch may 

turn 
Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung, 
Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should 

burn 
To point the way a thousand rocks among — 
Or break some subtle chain, which none discern, 
Though binding down the terrible, the strong, 
Th' o'ersweeping passions — which to loose on life 
Is to set free the elements for strife ! 
Who then to power and glory shall restore 
That which our evil rashness hath undonel 
Who unto mystic harmony once more 
Attune those viewless chords 1 — There is but One ! 
He that through dust the stream of life can pour, 
The Mighty and the Merciful alone! 
— Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade — 
He leaves to man the ruin man hath made !^ 



TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 



" Devant vous est Sorrente ; la di'-mouroit la sosur de Tassfij 
quand il vint en p616rin dfimander a cette obscure amie, un 
asile contra I'injustice des princes. — Ses longues douleura 
avoieni presque 6gar6 sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du 
g^nie." Corintu, 

She sat, where on each wind that sighed 

The citron's breath went by; 
While the deep gold of eventide 

Burned in the Italian sky. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



2&i 



I ler bower was oiie where daylight's close 

Full oft swcot laughter found, 
As tliciice the ■voice of childhood rose 

To tiie high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful, at her knee, 

Her children stood timt hour. 
Their bursts of song, and dancing glee, 

Hushed as by words of power. 
With bright, fixed, wondering eyes that gazed 

Up to their mother's face; 
With orows through parting ringlets raised, 

They stood in silent grace. 

While she — yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulness was spread — 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read; 
The proud, undying lay, which poured 

Its light on evil years ; 
His of the gifted Pen and Sword,* 

The triumph and the tears. 

She read of fair Erminia's flight. 

Which Venice once might hear 
Sung on her glittering seas at night, 

By many a gondolier; 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle grove; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm. 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page glowed, 

Yoang holy hearts were stirred; 
And the meek tears of woman flowed 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, 

Came sweet each pause between ; 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turned — a way-worn man, 

In pilgrim garb stood nigh. 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan. 

Of proud, yet restless eye. 
But drops that would not stay for pride, 

From that dark eye gushed free. 
As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 

" Forgotten! e'en by thee ! 

" Am I so changed 1 — and yet we two 

Oft hand in hand have played — 
This brow hath been all bathed in dew. 

From wreaths which thou hast made. 
We have knelt down and said one prayer, 

And sung one vesper strain — 
My thoughts are dim with clouds of care — 

Tell me those words again! 



' It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian 
saying, tliat Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all 
men. 

U 26* 



"Life hath been heavy on my head; 

I come, a stricken deer. 
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, 

To bleed in stillness here." 
—She gazed — till thoughts that long had slept 

^hook all her thrilling frame — 
She fell upon his neck, and wept. 

And breathed her brother's name. 

Her brother^s name!— and who was he. 

The weary one, th' unknown, 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own? 
— He was the bard of gifts divine, 

To sway the hearts of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine. 

He of the Sword and Pen! 



TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. 

Thine is a strain to read amongst the hills. 

The old and full of voices — by the source 

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence 

fills 
The solitude with sound — for in its course 
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart. 

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 

To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, 

Where summer winds each tree's low tones 

awaken. 
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. 
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 
Sinks with a golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet. 
When night hath hushed the woods with all their 

birds. 
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 
As antique music, linked with household words. 
While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip migh^ 

move, 
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, 
Thy verse hath power that brightly might difl!usfl 
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around, 
From its own glow of hope and courage high, 
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy ! — thou art e'en as onu 
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye. 
In every spot beneath the smiling sun. 
Sees where the springs of living waters lie — 
Unseen awhile they sleep — till, touched by tneo, 
Bright, healthful waves flow forth, to each glad 
I wanderer free! 



882 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE SONG OF THE CURFEW. 

Hark! from the tlim church-tower, 

The deep, slow curfew's chime ! 

A heavy sound unto hall and bower, 

In England's olden tim.e! 
Sadly 't was heard by him who came 
From the fields of his toil at night, 
And who might not see his own hearth's flame 
In his children's eyes make light. 

Sadly and sternly heard 

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow, 
Which had cheered the board, with the mirthful 
word. 
And the red wine's foaming flow 
Until that sullen, booming knell, 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell. 
With a weight, and with a chain. 

Wo for the wanderer then 
In the wild-deer's forests far! 
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, 

Might guide him as a star. 
And wo for him, whose wakeful soul. 

With lone aspirings filled, 
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll. 
While the sounds of earth were stilled. 

And yet a deeper wo. 

For the watchers by the bed, 
Where the fondly loved, in pain lay low. 

And rest forsook the head. 
For the mother, doomed unseen to keep 

By the dying babe her place, 
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, 
Yet not bebjid its face ! 

Darkness, in chieftain's hall ! 
Darkness, in peasant's cot ! 
While Freedom, under that shadowy pall. 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
'■ )h ! the fireside's peace we well may prize, 

For blood hath flowed like rain, 
I oured forth to make sweet sanctuaries 
Of England's homes again ! 

Heap the yule-fagots high. 

Till the red light fills the room ! 
I* '; home's own hour, when the stormy sky 

Grows thick with evening gloom. 
Gather ye round the holy hearth. 

And by its gladdening blaze, 
«J nto thankful bliss we will change our mirth 
Wita a thought of the olden davs. 



HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS. 

Oh ! lovely voices of the sky 

Which hynmed the Saviour's birth, 
Are ye not singing still on high. 
Ye that sang, " Peace on earth 1" 
To us yet speak the strains 

Wherewith, in time gone by. 
Ye blessed the Syrian swains. 
Oh ! voices of the sky ! 

Oh ! clear and shining light, whose beaniiJ 

That hour Heaven's glory shed. 
Around the palms, and o'er the streams. 
And on the shepherd's head. 
Be near, through life and death. 

As in that holiest night 
Of hope, and joy, and faith — 
Oh ! clear and shining light ! 

Oh ! star which led to Him, whose love 

Brought down man's ransom free — 
Where art thou 7 — 'midst the host above, 
May we still gaze on thee? 
\i\ Heaven thou art not set. 

Thy rays earth may not dim , 
Send them to guide us yet, 
Oh ! star which led to Him ! 



CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST 

" But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with 
waves; for the wind was contrary." 

St. MaWiew, xiv. 24 

Fear was within the tossing bark. 

When stormy winds grew loud ; 
And waves came rolling high and dark, 

And the tall mast was bowed. 

And men stood breathless in their dread. 

And baffled in their skill — 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea, " Be still !" 

And the wind ceased — it ceased ! — that word 

Passed through the gloomy sky ; 
The troubled billows knew their Lord, 

And sank beneath his eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast. 
As when the righteous falls asleep, 

When death's fierce throes are past. 

Thou that didst rule the angry hour, 

And tame the tempest's mood 
Oh ! send thy spirit forth in power, 

O'er our dark souls to brood ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



28b 



Thou that didst bow the billow's pride, 

Thy mandates to fulfil — 
Speali, speak, to passion's raging tide, 

Speak and say — " Peace, be still !" 



CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN. 

He knelt — the Saviour knelt and prayed. 

When but His Father's eye 
Looked through the lonely garden's shade. 

On that dread agony! 
The Lord of all, above, beneath, 
Was bowed with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour, 

The skies might well grow dim, 
When this mortality had power 

So too'ershadow Him! 
That He who gave man's breath might know, 
The very depths of human wo. 

He knew them all — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint, perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life. 

All darkened round His head ! 
And the Dehverer knelt to pray — 
Yet passed it not, that cup, away. 

It passed not — though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath His tread ; 
It passed not — though to Him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent Him from on high 
A gift of strength, for man to die.* 

And was His mortal hour beset 

With anguish and dismay 1 
— How may ue meet our conflict yet, 

In the dark, narrow way 7 
How, but through Him, that path who trodl 
Save, or we perish. Son of God ! 



THE SUNBEAM, 

Tnou art no lingerer in monarch's hall, 

A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 

A bearer of hope unto land and sea — { 

Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee*? i 

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles — 
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles — 
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam. 
And gladdened the sailor, like words from home. . 



' "And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, 
tiengthening him." 

Si. lAike, xxii. 4a I 



To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy 

glow, 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 

I looked on the mountains — a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array; 
Thou brakest forth — and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot; 
But a gleam of thee on its casement fell. 
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art. 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not, from thy pomp to shed 
A tender light on the ruin's head. 

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way. 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day. 
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old. 
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer, oh ! what is like thee? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! 
— One thing is like thee, to mortals given, — 
The faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven. 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE 
OF THE NILE. 

In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 

A wanderer proudly stood 
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, 

Of Egypt's awful flood ; 
The cradle of that mighty birth. 
So long a hidden thing to earth. 

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 

A low mysterious tone ; 
A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gon^ ; 
He listened — and his heart beat high • 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 

Rushed burning through his frame 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame. 

Though stillness lay, with '^ves last smile, 

Round those calm fountains ni tnc Nil« 



284 



MRS. HEMANS WORKS. 



Night came with stars : — across his soul 
There swept a sudden change, 

E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 
A shadow dark and strange, 

Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall 

O'er triumph's hour — And is this all ? 

No more than this ! — what seemed it now 
First by that spring to stand 1 

A thousand streams of lovelier flow 
Bathed his own mountain land ! 

Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, 

Their wild sweet voices called him back. 

They called him back to many a glade, 
His childhood's haunt of play, 

Where brightly through the beechen shade 
Their waters glanced away ; 

They called him, with their sounding waves. 

Back to his fathers' hills and graves. 

But darkly minghng with the thought 

Of each familiar scene. 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between ; 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 
The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 

Where was the glow of power and pride '? 

The spirit born to roam '2 
His weary heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home ; 
All vainly strugghng to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

He wept — the stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears. 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years. 
— Oh, happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee !* 



THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS. 

Yes, thou hast met the sun's last smile, 
From the haunted hills of Rome ; 

By many a bright iEgean isle, 
Thou hast seen the billows foam : 

From the silence of the Pyramid 
Thou hast watched the solemn flow 

Of the Nile, that with its waters hid 
The ancient realm below : 

Thy heart hath burned as shepherds sung 

SDrae wild and warlike strain. 
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung 

Through the pealing hills of Spain: 



* Hie arrival oi Bruce at what he considered to be the 
source of the Nile, was followed almost immediately by feel- 
ings thus suddenly fluctuating from triumph to despondence, 
— See hi? Travels in Abyssinia. 



And o'er the lonely Grecian streams 
Thou hast heard the laurels moan, 

With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreama 
Of the glory that is gone. 

But go thou to the pastoral vales 

Of the Alpine mountains old, 
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales 

By the wind's deep whispers told ! 

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread, 

Where man hath nobly striven, 
And life, like incense, hath been shed, 

An offering unto Heaven 

For o'er the snows, and round the pines, 

Hath swept a noble flood ; 
The nurture of the peasant's vines 

Hath been the martyr's blood ! 

A spirit, stronger than the sword. 

And loftier than despair. 
Through all the heroic region poure'l, 

Breathes in the generous air. 

A memory clings to every steep 

Of long-enduring faith. 
And the sounding streams glad record keep 

Of courage unto death. 

Ask of the peasant where his sires 

For truth and freedom bled. 
Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, 

Where lay the holy dead ; 

And he will tell thee, all around. 

On fount, and turf, and stone. 
Far as the chamois' foot can bound, 

Their ashes have been sown ! 

Go, when the sabbath bell is heard* 

Up through the wilds to float, 
When the dark old woods and caves are stirred 

To gladness by the note ; 

When forth, along their thousand rills, 

The mountain people come. 
Join thou their worship on those hills 

Of glorious martyrdom. 

And while the song of praise ascends. 

And while the torrent's voice 
Like the swell of many an organ blends, 

Then let thy soul rejoice ! 



* See " Gilly's Researches amongst the Mountains of Pieil 
mont," for an interesting description of a sabbath day in the 
upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of those Pro- 
testant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their llocka 
and herds to tlie summits of the hills during the summer, 
are followed tliilher by their pastors, and at that season of tlia 
year, assemble on that sacred day, to worship in the open air, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



■2b:} 



Rejoice, that human lieart, through scorn, 
Through shame, through dcatli, made strong, 

Before the rocks and heavens have borne 
Witness of God so long! 



THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 



-" Sins aloud 



Old songs, the precious music of tlie heart." 

Wordsworth. 



Sing them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight. 
Sing them along the misty moor. 

Where ancient hunters roved. 
And swell them through the torrent's roar — 

The songs our fathers loved ! 

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the bannered wall : 
The songs that through our valleys green 

Sent on from age to age. 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale 

Cheered homeward through the leaves: 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep. 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be ! — a light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A spell of lingering love : 
Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on. 
And link ^igh thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth, 

When evening-fires burn clear. 
And in the fields of harvest mirth. 

And on the hills of deer! 
So shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam. 
Call hack the hearts that once it stirred, 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain, 
The voices of their household band 

Shall sweetly speak again; 



The heathery heights in vision rise 
Where like the stag they roved — • 

Sing to your sons those melodies, 
The songs your fathers loved 



THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CON- 
aUEROR. 

Lowly upon his bier 

The royal conqueror lay, 
Baron and chief stood near. 

Silent in war-array. 

Down the long minster's aisle, 
Crowds mutely gazing streamed, 

Altar and tomb, the while. 

Through mists of incense gleamed; 

And by the torch's blaze 

The stately priest had said 
High words of power and praise, 

To the glory of the dead. 

They lowered him, with the sound 

Of requiems, to repose, 
When from the throngs around 

A solemn voice arose : 

" Forbear, forbear 1" it cried, 
" In the holiest name forbear ! 

He hath conquered regions wide. 
But he shall not slumber there. 

" By the violated hearth 

Which made way for yon proud shrine. 
By the harvests which this earth 

Hath borne to me and mine; 

" By the home e'en here o'erthrown, 
On my children's native spot, — 

Hence! with his dark renown 
Cumber our birth-place not ! 

" Will my sire's unransomed field 
O'er which your censers wave, 

To the buried spoiler yield 
Soft slumber in the gravel 

" The tree before him fell 

Which we cherished many a year, 

But its deep root yet shall swell 
And heave against his bier. 

" The land that I have tilled. 

Hath yet its brooding breast 
With my home's white ashes filled— 

And it shall not give him rest. 

"Here each proud column's bed 
Hath been wet by weeping eyea- 

Hence ! and bestow your dead 

Where no wrong against him cne*-" 



286 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Shame glowed on each dark face 
Of those proud and steel-girt men, 

And they bought with gold a place 
For their leader's dust, e'en then. 

A little earth for him 

Whose banner flew so far ! 
And a peasant's tale could dim 

The name, a nation's star! 

One deep voice thus arose 

From a heart which wrongs had riven- 
Oh ! who shall number those 

That were but heard in Heaven 1* 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea. 

For ever and the same ! 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, 

Whose thunders nought can tame. 

Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone, 

From the rich bowers of earth, 
And hushed is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore 

Along thy wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone, 
And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs poured, 

Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang 

O'er stream and mountain free, 
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang. 

Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep, 

Through many an olden clime. 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleej 

Until the close of time. 

Thou lifitest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky, 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound. 

E'en as when first it rolled. 



Let there be silence, deep and strange. 

Where sceptred cities rose! 
Thou speak'st of one who doth not change- 

— So may our hearts repose. 



CASABIANCA.* 

The boy stood on the burning deck. 
Whence all but him had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 
As born to rule the storm; 

A creature of heroic blood, 
A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go, 
Without his father's word ; 

That father, faint in death below, 
His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say 
If yet my task is done 1" 

He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, Father!" once again he cried, 
" If I may yet be gone !" 

— And but the booming shots replied, 
And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 
And in his waving hair; 

And looked from that lone post of death, 
In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud 
"My father! must I stayl" 

While o'er him fast through sail and shroud. 
The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child. 
Like banners in the sky. ' 

There came a burst of thunder sound 

The boy — oh ! where was hel 

— Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young faithful heart. 

* Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, son tc 

■ For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remark- the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle 

able circumstances which attended the obsequies of William of the Nile), after the ship had taken fu-e, and all tlie guns had 

4^.8 Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Francais, vol. been abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, 

IV. p. 4S0. when the flames had reached the powder. 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

' Why woultlst thou leave me, oh ! gentle child 1 
Thy home on tlie mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall — 
JMinc is a fair and pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Through the long bright hours of the summer-day, 
They llnd the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme ; 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they 

know — 
Lady, kind lady, oh ! let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell, 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune; 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" My mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree, 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — • 
Lady, kind lady ! oh ! let me go." 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
—Come tliou with me to the vineyards nigh. 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away? 
• -But I know that my brothers are there at play. 
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell. 
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well, 
Or they launch their boats where the bright 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go." 

" Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow, 
They have Icfl; tiie fern by the spring's green side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
— Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hilll 
— But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still, 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the turf is bent by the singing bee. 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go." 



THE DEPARTED. 



-"Thou slialt lie down 



With patriarchs of the infant world — witli Icings, 
Tlie powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages paat, 

All in one mighty sepulchre." 

Bryant. 

And shrink ye from the way 
To the spirit's distant shore 1 
Earth's mightiest men, in armed array, 
Are thither gone before. 

The warrior kings, whose banner 
Flew far as eagles fly, 
They are gone where swords avail them not, 
From the feast of victory. 

And the seers, who sat of yore 
By orient palm or wave, 
They have passed with all their starry lore^ 
Can ye still fear the grave 7 

— We fear, we fear! — the sunshine 
Is joyous to behold. 
And we. reck not of the buried kings, 
Or the awful seers of old. 

Ye shrink ! — the bards whose lays 
Have made your deep hearts burn. 
They have left; the sun, and the voice of praise, 
For the land whence none return : 

And the lovely, whose memorial 
Is the verse that can not die, 
They too are gone with their glorious bloom 
From the gaze of human eye. 

Would ye not join that throng 
Of the earth's departed flowers, 
And the masters of the mighty song 
In their far and fadeless bowers? 

Those songs are high and holy. 
But they vanquish not our fear ; 
Not from our path those flowers are gone — 
We fain would linger here ! 

Linger then yet awhile. 

As the last leaves on the bough ! 
— Ye have loved the gleam of many a smile 
That is taken from you now. 

There have been sweet singing voices 
In your walks that now are still ; 
There are scats left void in your earthly honM« 
Which none again may fill. 

Soft eyes are seen no more 

That made spring-time in your heaU ■, 
Kindred and friends are gone befor^.- 
And ye stilJ fear to part "J 



S8S 



MRS. HEMAr-:S' WORKS. 



- Wt' fear not now, we fear not ! 

Though the way through darkness bends ; 
Our souls are strong to follow them, 
Our own familiar friends ! 



THE BREEZE FROM LAND. 



' As when to them who sail 



Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 

Mozambic, off at sea north-east whids blow 

Sabean odours from the spicy shore 

Of Araby the Blest; with such delay 

Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league, 

Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 

Paradise Lost. 



Joy is upon the lonely seas, 

When Indian forests pour 
Forth to the billow and the breeze 

Their fragrance from the shore ; 
Joy, when the soft air's glowing sigh 
Bears on the breath of Araby. 

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell 

A wanderer of the deep 
Where far away the jasmines dwell, 

And where the rayrrh-trees weep ! 
Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam, 
Are tidings of the citron's home ! 

The sailor at the helm they meet, 

And hope his bosom stirs, 
Upspringing, 'midst the waves to greet 

The fair earth's messengers, 
That woo him, from the mournful main, 
Back to her glorious bowers again. 

They woo him, whispering lovely tales 

Of many a flowering glade. 
And fount's bright gleam in island-vales 

Of golden-fruited shade ; 
Across his lone ship's wake they bring 
A vision and a glow of spring ! 

And oh! ye masters of the lay! 

Come not e'en thus your songs, 
That meet us on life's weary way 

Amidst her toiling throngs'? 
Ifes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear 
A current of celestial air! 

Their power is from the brighter clime 

That in our birth hath part, 
Their tones are of the world which time 

Sears not within the heart ; 
rhey tell us of the living hght 
In its green places ever bright. 



They call us with a voice divine 

Back to our early love, 
Our vows of youth at many a shrine 

Whence far and soon we rove : 
— Welcome, high thought and holy strain, 
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again 1* 



AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 

There were thick leaves above me and around, 
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep, 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 
As of soft showers on water — dark and deep 
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still. 
They seemed but pictured glooms — a hidden rill, 
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream. 
Under the fern-tufts ; and a tender gleam 
Of sort green light, as by the glow-worm shed, 
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs 

down. 
And steeped the magic page wherein I read 
Of royal chivalry and old renown, 
A tale of Palestine.t — Meanwhile the bee 
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours, 
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 
Blue skies, and amber sunshine — brightly free, 
On filmy wings the purple dragon-fly 
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by ; 
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell 
Where sat the lone wood pigeon. 

But ere long. 
All sense of these things faded, as the spell. 
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale, grew strong 
On my chained soul — 't was not the leaves I heard 
— A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirred. 
Through its proud floating folds — 't was not the 

brook. 
Singing in secret through its grassy glen — 
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air.— Like clouds when winds are high. 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, 
Shadowed by graceful palm-trees. — Then the shout 
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out. 
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious 

hue 
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue ; 
And harps were there — I heard their sounding 

strings, 
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings 



• Written immediately after reading the " Remarks od 
the Character and Writings of Milton," in the Christian Ex- 
aminer. 

t The Talisman— Tales of the Crusaders. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



289 



riic bright masque fatlrd— unto life's worn track 
VV hat called mo, from its Hood of glory, back 1 
—A voice of hajjpy chiUihood! — and they passed, 
Banner, and harj), and Paynim trumpet's blast — 
Yd might I scarce bewail the vision gone, 
My heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tone. 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' 

SCHOOL. 



*'Now in thy youth, beseech of Him, 

Who siveth, upbraiding not, • 
That his light in tliy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 

Bernard Barton. 



HrsH ! 't is a holy hour — the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on bright young 
heads. 
With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, 
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night — in 
prayer. 

Gaze on, — 't is lovely ! — childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought 7 

— Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 

What death must fashion for eternity ! 

Oh ! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest. 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done. 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 

Lift up your hearts ! — though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes ; 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled 
springs 

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread ; 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; 
Vet in tliose flute-like voices, mingling low, 
Is woman's tenderness — how soon her wo ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's 
hour. 
And sumlcss riches, from AflTection's deep, 

To pour on broken reeds— -a wasted shower! 
And to make idols, and to fird them clay. 
And to bewail that worship — therefore pray ! 
27 



Her lot is on you — to be found untired. 

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale check, and yet a brow inspired. 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain, 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay., 

And oh! to love through all things — therefore 
pray ! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery 
light. 

On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from 'olight. 

Earth will forsake — oh ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven I 



THE INVOCATION. 

WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OP A SISTER-IN-LAW. 

Answer me, burning stars of night ! 

Where is the spirit gone. 
That past the reach of human sight. 

Even as a breeze, hath flown 1 
— And the stars answered tne — " We roll 

In light and power on high, 
But, of the never-dying soul, 

Ask things that can not die !" 

Oh ! many toned and chainless wind ! 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find, 

Far over mount and seal 
— And the wind murmured in reply, 

" The blue deep I have crossed, 
And met its barks and billows high, 

But not what thou hast lost I" 

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun. 
Answer I have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run 1 
The bright clouds answered — " We depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart 

For that which can not die !" 

Speak, then, thou voice of God within! 

Thou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me through life's restless dm, 

Where is the spirit flown 7 
— And tlie voice answered — " Be thou still 

Enough to know is given ; 
Clouds, winds, and stars their tasic lulfil, 

Thine is to trust in Heaven 1" 



290 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SBA-SHOEE. 

O WANDERER ! would thy heart forget 

Each earthly passion and regret, 

And would thy wearied spirit rise 

To commune with its native skies ; 

Pause for awhile, and deem it sweet 

To linger in this calm retreat ; 
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, 
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 

Unmixed with aught of meaner tone, 
Here nature's voice is heard alone : 
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, 
Is rushing on its wing of power, 
And spirits of the deep awake, 
And surges foam, and billows break. 
And rocks and ocean-caves around. 
Reverberate each awful sound ; 
That mighty voice, with all its dread control, 
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. 

Byt when no more the sea-winds rave, 
When peace is brooding on the wave, 
And from earth, air, and ocean rise 
No sounds but plaintive melodies : 
Soothed by their softly mingling swell. 
As daylight bids the world farewell, 
The rusthng wood, the dying breeze, 
The faint, lovsr rippling of the seas, 
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, 
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. 

Is thine a heart the world hath stung. 
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung! 
Hast thou some grief that none may know, 
Some lonely, secret, silent wo 1 
Or have thy fond affections fled 
From earth to slumber with the dead 7 
Oh ! pause awhile — the world disown. 
And dwell with nature's self alone ! 
And though no more she bids arise 
Thy soul's departed energies. 
And though thy joy of life is o'er. 
Beyond her magic to restore ; 
Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal. 
And sooth the wounded heart they can not heal. 



THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER.* 

A SONG for the death-day of the brave- 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave, 

"With the Sword, his bride.t 



He went, with his noble heart unworn. 

And pure, and high, 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn. 

Only to die! 

He went with the Lyre, whose lofty lone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone, 

And his Father-land. 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow, 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met 

To chain its flow. , 

A song for the death-day of the brave- 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the Sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays 

To turn the flight. 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watch-fire's light. 

And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

Midst all high thought, 
And a memory unto his mother's breast. 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath. 
Beautiful — beautiful and bright, 

In life and death ! 

A song for the death-day of the brave- 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave. 

With the Sword, his bride ! 



* On reading part of a letter from Korner's father, address- 
ed to Mr. Uichardson, the translator of his works, in which 
he epealvs of "Tire death-day of his son." 

t See tlie Sword-song, composed on the morning of his 
deatti. 



INVOCATION. 

Hushed is the world in night and sleep, 

Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death ; 

Too rude to break a calm so deep. 

Were music's faintest breath. 

Descend, bright Visions ! fromaerial bowers, 

Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours. 

In hope or fear, in toil or pain. 
The weary day have mortals past. 
Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign, 
And all your spells around them cast ; 
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the teal 
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



291 



Oh ! boar your sotlcst balm to those, 
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead, 
To them that world of peace disclose. 
Where the bright soul is (led: 
Whore Love, immortal in his native clime, 
Sliall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time. 

Or to his loved, his distant land, 

On yom light wings the exile bear ; 

To feel once more his heart expand, 

In his own genial mountain-air ; 
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, 
And bless each note, as heaven's own music sweet. 

But oh ! with Fancy's brightest ray. 
Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; 
Bid forms of heaven around him play, 
And bowers of Eden bloom 1 
And waft his spirit to its native skies. 
Who finds no charms in life's realities. 

No voice is on the air of night, 
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep. 
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling hght 
Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 
Descend, bright visions, from your airy bower, 
Dark, silent, solemn, is j^our favourite hour. 



TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL SIR 
E— D P— K— M. 

Brave spirit ! mourned with fond regret. 
Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon. 
Oh ! who could deem thy star should set 
So darkly and so soon? 

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind. 
Which marked and closed thy brief career, 
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined. 
Lies withered on thy bier. 

The soldier's death hath been thy doom, 
The soldier's tear thy meed shall be; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 

Might Fate have reared for thee. 

Thou shouldst have died, O high-souled chief! 
In those bright days of glory fled. 
When triumph so prevailed o'er grief. 

We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then 
Was worthy of a warrior's (rrave— 
When shall affection weep again 
So proudly o'er th'. hravel 

There, on the battle-fields of Spain, 
■Mid.'^t RopceRva'lc;' nwaiitain-sccne, 
Or on. Vittoria's blood red plain, 

Meet bad thy death-bed been. 



We mourn not that a hero's life. 
Thus in its ardent jirime should close; 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, 
But died 'midst conquered foes! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame 
In that last moment cheered thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name. 
That ne'er may be forgot: 

And many a tale of triumph won 
Sliall breathe that name in Memory's ear. 
And long may England mourn a son 
Without reproach or fear. 



TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H— Y 
E—LL— S. 

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 



"Happy are they who die in their youth, when their r« 
nown is around them." Ossian. 



Weep'st thou for him, whose doom was scaled 
On England's proudest battle-field % 
For him, the lion-heart, who died, 
In victory's full, resistless tide? 

Oh ! mourn him not. 
By deeds like his that field was won, , 

And Fate could yield to Valour's son, 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry. 
He saw the vanquished eagles fly; 
And envied be his death of fame, 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name, 

That nought shall dim — 
No cloud obscured his glory's day, 
It saw no twilight of decay — 

Weep not for him! 

And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan, 
A hero claims far loftier tone! 
Oh! proudly should the war-song swell, 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour, 
When England, 'midst the battle-storm, 
Th' avenging angel — reared her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet, gallant heart ! to swell thy praise, 
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays 
Since he, the soldier's guiding-star, 
The victor-chief, the lord of war, 

Has owned thy fame : 
And oh! like his approving word. 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's fame? 



GUERILLA SONG. 
Founded on the story related of the Spanish Patriot, Mina. 

Oh ! forget not the hour, when through forest and 

valo, 
We returned with our chief to his dear native hills ; 
Through the woody Sierra there sighed not a gale, 
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement- 
walls ; 
And nature lay sleeping, in calmness and light, 
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our 
sight. 

We entered that home — all was loneliness round, 
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave ; 
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound, 
Ah ! such was the welcome that waited the brave ! 
For the spoilers had passed, like the poison-wind's 

breath. 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

Oh 1 forget not that hour — let its image be near, 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest. 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each 

breast. 
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine 
O'er the plains of the olive, and hills of the vine.. 



THE AGED INDIAN. 

Warriors! my noon of life is past, 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 
I crouch before the wintry blast, 
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; 
The heroes of my youth are fled. 
They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave I 

My kindred-chiefs in days of yore. 

Ye fill an unrememhered grave. 

Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. 

The records of j'our wars are gone, 

Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth, 
To join the brethren of his prime : 
Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time ! 
With him, ye sons of former days ! 
Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes that hailed your spirit's flame, 
Still kindling in the combat's shock. 
Have seen, since darkness veiled your fame, 
Sons of the desert and the rock! 



Another, and another race. 
Rise to the battle, and the chace 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand ! 
Oh ! let me join their spirits fled, 
Oh ! send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart. 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the deer, 
The glory of this arm is flown — 
Why should the feeble linger here, 
When all the pride of life is gone 1 
Warriors! why still the stroke deny, 
Think ye Ontara fears to diel 

He feared not in his flower of days. 
When strong to stem the torrent's force, 
When through the desert's pathless maze, 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 
When war was sunshine to his sight, 
And the wild hurricane, delight ! 

Shall then the warrior tremble nozo? 
Now when his envied strength is o'er 7 
Hung on the pine his idle bow. 
His pirogue useless on the shore 1 
When death hath dimmed his faihng eye, 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die? 

Sons of the brave I delay no more. 
The spirits of my kindred call ; 
'T is but one pang, and all is o'er! 
Oh ! bid the aged cedar fall ! 
To join the brethren of his prime, 
The mighty of departed time. 



EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. 

Soft skies of Italy ! how richly drest, 
Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow; 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west, 
Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow! 

Yon torrent, foaming down the granite stetp, 
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 
Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain-stream 

Now from yon peak departs the vi\'id ray, 
That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
From rock and torrent fade the tints away, 
And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose: 
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper- 
star. 
And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



293 



DIRGE OF THE HIGHLA ND CHIEF IN 
" WAVERLEY." 

Son of the mighty and the free! 
Higli-niiiulod leader of the brave! 
Was it for lofty chief like thee, 

To fill a nameless grave? 
Oh ! if, amidst the valiant slain. 
The warrior's bier hath been thy lot. 
E'en though on red Culloden's plain, 

We then had mourned thee not. 

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, 
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair; 
Vengsr^nce alone may breathe thy name, 

The watchword of Despair ! 
Yet oh! if gallant spirit's power 
Had e'er enobled death like thine, 
Then glory marked thy parting hour, 

Last of a mighty line ! 

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, 
But can not chase their silent gloom; 
Those beams, that gild thy native walls. 

Are sleeping on thy tomb ! 
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, 
Thy green woods wave in vernal air. 
But the loved scenes may vainly smile — 

Not e'en thy dust is there. 

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound 
ts mingling with the torrent's roar, 
Unmarked the wild deer sport around — 

Thou lead'st the chace rto more! 
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, 
Those halls where pealed the choral strain, 
rhey hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill — 

And all is hushed again. 

No banner from the lonely tower 
Shall wave its blazoned folds on high; 
There the tall grass and summer flower. 

Unmarked shall spring and die. 
No more thy bard, for other ear. 
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine — 
Hushed be the strain thou canst not hear, 

Last of a mighty line. 



THE CRUSADER'S WAR SONG. 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high. 

Lead on to Salem's towers ! 
Who would not deem it bliss to die. 

Slain in a cause like ours? 
The brave who sleep in soil of thine. 
Lie not entombed, but shrined, O Palestine; 
27* 



Souls of the slain in holy war! 

Look from your sainted rest! 
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car. 

To mingle with the blest; 
Tell us how short the death-pang's power. 
How bright the joys of your immortal bower. 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train" 

Pour forth your loftiest lays; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breathed in the warrior's praise. 
Bid every string triumphant swell 
Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 

Salem! amidst the fiercest hour 

The wildest rage of fight. 
Thy name shall lend our falchions power, 

And nerve our hearts with might, 
Envied be those for thee that fall. 
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 

For them no need that sculptured tomb 

Should chronicle their fame. 
Or pyramid record their doom. 

Or deathless verse their name ; 
It is enough that dust of thine 
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine ! 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 

For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower! 
We burn to mingle in the strife. 
Where but to die ensures eternal life. 



THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. 



It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald 
fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death 
dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengary, 
cliief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the 
ranks, and waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, "To- 
day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning !" The High- 
landers received a new impulse from his words, and, charging 
with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. — See the 
Quarterly Review, article of "Culloden Papers." 

Oh ! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot I 
Still fearless and first in the combat he fell ; 
But we paused not one tear-drop to ^hed o'er the 

spot. 
We spared not one moment to murmur Farewell, ' 
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, 
" Today for revenge, and to-morrow foi grief* 



•294 



iMRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And wildly Clanronald ! we achoed the vow, 
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our 

hand ; 
Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee 

now, 
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band. 
When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the 

chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call. 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave ; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave. 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief 1" 

Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race ! 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set ! 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet ! 
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 



TO THE EYE. 

Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, 
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam. 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart. 
Finds its own language to pervade the heart ; 
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt, 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt? 
A nd by some spell of undefined control. 
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul ! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 

Thy glance is nature, and thy language, truth: 

And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, 

Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, 

Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal. 

Or speak one thought that interest would conceal; 

While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, given 

But to reflect the purity of heaven ; 

Oh ! then how lovely, there unveiled to trace 

Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace ! 

When Genius lends thee all his living light, 
Where the full beams of intellect unite, 
When Love illumes thee with his varying ray, 
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; 
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues. 
Tempering its lustre with a vale of dews ; 
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell 
Oan pierce the mazes of the soul so well, 
Bid some new feeling to existence start. 
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 



And oh ! when thought, in ecstacy sublioM, 
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time, 
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, 
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, 
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high. 
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) 
Who does not own, that through thy lightning 

beams 
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams'? 
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, 
The vestal-ray, ttie spark that can not die ; 



THE HERO'S DEATH. 

Life's parting beams were in his eye, 
Life's closing accents on his tongue. 
When round him, pealing to the sky_ 

The shout of victory rung ! 
Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 
A smile so bright illumed his face — 
Oh ! never, of the light it shed. 

Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His was a death, whose rapture high 
Transcended all that life could yield ; 
His warmest prayer was so to die, 

On the red battle-field ! 
And they may feel, who love him most, 
A pride so holy and so pure — 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 

A treasure thus secure ! 



STANZAS 



ON THE LATE NATIONAL CALAMITY, THE CfiATH OF 
THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 



"H6]as! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu'on 

peut imaginer de plus glorieux Le pass6 et le present 

nous garandssoient I'avenir Telle 6toit I'agr^able his- 
toire que nous faisions ; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il 
n'y avoit que la dur6e de sa vie ; dont nous ne croyons paa 
devoir etre en peine, car, qui eiit pu seulement penser, que 
les annfies eussent du manquer a un jeunesse qui sembloit si 
vive?" — Bossuet. 



I. 

Marked ye the mingling of the city's throngs 
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright / 
Prepare the pageant and the choral song. 
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light ! 
And hark! what rumor's gathering sound is nigh? 
It is the voice of joy, that murmur deep 1 
Away, be hushed 1 ye sounds of revelry \ 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep! 
Weep ! for the storm hath o'er us darkly past. 
And England's royal flower is broken by the blast 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



295 



II. 

Was It a dream ■? so sudden and so dread 
That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! 
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, 
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame 1 
Oh ! when hath life possessed, or death destroyed 
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled 1 
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ! 
For all is lost — the mother and her child ! 
Our morning-star hath vanished, and the tomb 
Throws its deep-lengthened shade o'er distant years 
to come. 

III. 

Angel of Death ! did no presaging sign 
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare 1 
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, 
Danger and fear seemed past — but thou wert there ! 
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's path 
Foretell the hour of Nature's awful throes ; 
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath, 
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose : 
But thou, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen, 
Cam'st like the lightning's flash, when heaven is 
all serene. 

IV. 

And she is gone — the royal and the young, 
In soul commanding and in heart benign ; 
Who from a race of Kings and Heroes sprung, 
Glowed with a spirit lofty as her line. 
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well. 
Breathe forth her name, unheeded and in vain ; 
Nor can those e3'es on which her own would dwell. 
Wake from that breast one sympathy again: 
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, 
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. 

V. 
Oh ! many a bright existence we have seen 
Q,uenched in the glow and fulness of its prime; 
And many a cherished flower, ere now, hath been 
Cropt, ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. 
We have lost Heroes in their noon of pride. 
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier ; 
And we have wept when soaring Genius died, 
Checked in the glory of his mid career ! 
But here our hopes were centred — all is o'er, 
All thought in this absorbed — she was — and is no 
more! 

VI. 

We watched her childhood from its earliest hour. 
From every word and look blest omens caught ; 
While that young mind developed all its power, 
And rose to energies of loftiest thought. 
On her was fixed the Patriot's ardent eye, 



One hope still bloomed — one vista still was fair ; 
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky, 
She was our dayspring — all was cloudless ther3 ; 
And oh ! how lovely broke on England's gaze. 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of dis 
tant days. 

VII. 

Now hath one moment darkened future years, 
And changed the track of <\ges yet to be ! — 
Yet, mortal ! 'midst the bitterness of tears, 
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! 
Oh ! while the clear perspective smiled in light. 
Wisdom should ^Aenhave tempered hope's excess, 
And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright, 
We might have trembled at its loveliness : 
Joy is no earthly flower — nor framed to bear, 
In its exotic bloom, life's cold, ungenial air. 

VIII. 

All smiled around thee — Youth, and Love, ar.d 

Praise, 
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine ' 
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze. 
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. 
Heiress of empires ! thou art passed away, 
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw. 
O'er one brief hour of life, a fleeting ray. 
Then leave the rest to solitude and wo ! 
Oh ! who shall dare to woo such dreams again ! 
Who hath not wept to know, that tears for th-ee 

were vain 1 

IX. 

Yet there is one who loved thee — and whose soui 
With mild affections nature formed to melt ; 
His mind hath bowed beneath the stern control 
Of many a grief — but this shall be unfelt ! 
Years have gone by — and given his honoured head 
A diadem of snow — his eye is dim — 
Around him Fleaven a solemn cloud hath spread, 
The past, the future, are a dream to him 1 
Yet in the darkness of his fate, alone 
He dwells on earth, while thou, in life's full pride, 
art gone ! 

X. 

The Chastener's hand is on us — we may weep, 
But not repine — for many a storm hath past, 
And, pillowed on her own majestic deep. 
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast I 
And war hath raged o'er many a distant plain, 
Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; 
While she, that regal daughter of tAe main. 
Smiled, in serene defiance of his wralh ! 
As some proud summit, mingling witJi '.he sky 
tlears calmly far below the thmiders iJl and Jro 



296 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XI. 
Pier vo'icc Imth been th' awakener — antl her name, 
The irathcring wonl of nations — in her might 
And all the awful beauty of her fame, 
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. 
High on her cldls, alone and lirm she stood, 
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower; 
That torch, whose lianie, far streaming o'er tlie 

fiood, 
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour! — 
Away, vain dreams of glory! — in the dust 
Be liumbled, ocean-quoen! and own thy sentence 

just! 

XII. 

Hark ! 't was the death-bell's note ! which, full and 

deep. 
Unmixed with aught of less majestic tone. 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep, 
Swells on the stillness of the air alone! 
Silent the throngs that fill the darkened street. 
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; 
And all is still, wliere countless thousands meet, 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart ! 
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene. 
As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had 

been. 

XIII. 

The sun goes down in beauty — his farewell. 
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright; 
And his last mellowed rays around us dwell, 
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. 
They smile and fade — but, when the day is o'er. 
What slow procession moves, with meas\ired 

tread 1 — 
Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no 

more, 
A solemn train — the mourners and the dead ! 
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled ray 
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus 

away. 

XIV. 

But other light is in that holy pile, 
Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; 
There, through the dim arcade, and pillared aisle. 
The funeral-torch its deep-red radiance throws. 
There pall, and canopy and sacred strain. 
And all around the stamp of wo may bear; 
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, 
Grief unexpressed, unsoothed by them — is there. 
No darker hour hath Fate for hnn who mourns. 
Than when the all he lovei^ as dust to dust, re- 
tarns, 

XV. 

vVe mourn — but not thy fate, departed One 1 
yVf pity— but the ming, not the dead; 



I A cloud hangs o'er us — "the bright day i^ done,"* 
And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. 
And he, the chosen of thy youtliful breast, 
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought. 
He, with thine early, fond allections blest. 
Lord of a mind witli all things lovely fraught ; 
What but a desert to his eye, that earth. 
Which but retains of thee the memory of thy 
worth ? 

XVI. 

Oh ! there are griefs for nature too intense, 
Whose first rude shock but stupefies the soul;_ 
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlaboured sense 
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control. 
But when 't is past, that still and speechless hour 
Of the sealed bosom, and the tearless eye. 
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power, 
To grasp the fulness of its agony 1 
Its death-like torpor vanished — and its doom, 
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature' 
bloom. 

XVII 

And such his lot, whom thou hast loved and left 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recalled ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, 
A warrior's heart! by danger ne'er appalled. 
Years may pass on — and, as they roll along, 
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend 
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng 
Mav, though alone in soul, in seeming blend ; 
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind. 
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple 
shrined. 

XVIII. 

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal 
Aught from his grief, whose spirit dwells with 

thee ; 
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, 
But all it was — oh ! never more shall be — 
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelmed by winter-snow, 
Shall spring again, when beams and showers re- 
turn ; 
The faded cheek again with health may glow, 
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn; 
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom, 
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb. 

XIX. 

But thou — thine hour of agony is o'er. 
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run, 
While Faith, that bids fond nature griev e no more, 
Tells that thy crown — though not on earth — is 
won. 



" " The bright day is done, 
And we are for tlie dark." 

Shakspeare. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



297 



Thou, of the world so early left, hast known 
Nought but the bloom and sunshine— and for thee, 
Child of propitious stars! for thcc alcne, 
The coarse of love ran smooth,* and brightly 

free — 
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given, 
It is enough for earth, to catch one glimpse of 

heaven. 

XX. 

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye. 
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy spirit camel 
Ours is that loss — and thou wert blest to die! 
Thou might'st have lived to dark and evil years, 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast; 
But thy spring-morn was all undimmed by tears, 
And thou wert loved and cherished to the last ! 
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone. 
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. 

XXI. 

Daughter of Kings ! from that high sphere look 

down. 
Where still in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; 
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown, 
Which earth displayed to claim thee from the skies. 
Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain 
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear. 
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that moum in 

vain, 
And, in their hours of loneliness — be near! 
Blest was thy lot e'en here — and one faint sigh, 
Oh ! tell those hearts, hath made that bliss eternity ! 
Nov. 23, 1317. 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.t 

'T WAS night in Babylon : yet many a beam. 
Of lamps fiir-glittering from her domes on high. 
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream. 
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, 
Whose azure knows no cloud : — each whispered 

sigh 
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace- 
bowers 
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody, 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers; 
And the glad city's voice went up from all her 
towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall, 
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band ! 
High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. — There Luxury's 
hand 



' "The course of true love never did nm smooth." 

Shakspeare. 
t Originally pvblished in y.ri laanna Bailiio's collection of 
Poems front living A A.b'^ia. 
V 



Had showered around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East; — all gems that pour 
The'sunbeams back; — all sweetsof many a land. 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore , 
— But mortal pride looked on, and still demanded 
more. 

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell th' exulting strain! 
The Lord of nations spoke, — and forth were 

brought 
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane : 
Thrice holy vessels! — pure from earthly stain, 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him, 
Who deigned within the oracle to reign. 
Revealed, yet shadowed; making noon-day dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between the Cheru- 
bim. 

They came, and louder pealed the voice of song, 
And pride flashed brighter from the kindhng 

eye. 
And He who sleeps not heard th' elated throng 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion ! — Fill the nectar high, 
High in the cups of consecrated gold! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, 
And bid the censers of the Temple hold 
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old ! 

Peace ! — is it but a phantom of the brain. 
Thus shadowed forth the senses to appal. 
Yon fearful vision? — Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause 1 — Along the illumined wall, 
Startling, yet riveting the ej'es of all. 
Darkly it moves, — a hand, a human hand. 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall 
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far dis- 
tant land. 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board, 
And quivering lips and whispers deep and low, 
And fitful starts! — the wine in triumph poured, 
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow. 
The waving censer drops to earth — and lo ! 
The King of Men, the Ruler, girt with might, 
Trembles before a shadow! — Say not so! 
— The child of dust, with guilt's forebodini^ 

sight. 
Shrinks from the Dread Unknown, th' avenginjj 

Infinite! 

But haste ye ! — bring Chaldea's gifted seers. 
The men of prescience! — haply to their eyes, 
Which track the future through the rollinj^ 

spheres. 
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies. 
They come — the readers of the midnight skies, 
Thcv tiiat give voice to visions — but in vain I 
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies. 



298 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



It hath no language 'midst the starry train, 
Earth tias no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to 
explain. 
Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 
And other inspiration ! — One of those 
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, 
And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows. 
His eye was bright, and yet the deep repose 
Of his pale features half o'erawed the mind. 
And imaged forth a soul, whose joys and woes 
Were of a loftier stamp than aught assigned 
To earth ; a being sealed and severed from man- 
kind. 
Yes! — what was earth to him, whose spirit 

passed 
Time's utmost bounds'! — on whose unshrinking 

sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Their full resplendence'? — Majesty and might. 
Were in his dreams ; — for him the veil of light 
Shrouding heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne. 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright 
Was raised ! — to him, in fearful splendour shown. 
Ancient of days! e'en thou mad'st thy dread pre- 
sence known. 

He spoke : — the shadows of the things to come 
Passed o'er his soul : — " O King, elate in pride ! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom, 
The one, the living God, by thee defied! 
He in whose balance earthly lords are tried. 
Hath weighed, and found thee wanting. 'T is 

decreed 
The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide, 
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed ! 
The days are full, they come ; — the Persian and 

the Mede !" 

There fell a moment's thrilling silence round, 
A breathless pause ! the hush of hearts that beat 
And limbs that quiver : — is there not a sound, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet 1 
— 'T was but some echo, in the crowded street, 
Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song. 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 
That speeds the stars their joyous course 
along;— 
A.way ! not let a dream disturb the festal throng ! 

Peace yet again ! — Hark ! steps in tumult flying. 
Steeds rushing on as o'er a battle-field ! 
The shout of hosts exulting or defying, 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield! 
And the loud, startling clash of spear and shield. 
Sudden as earthquake's burst! — and, blent with 

these, 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is 

sealed 
In tneir full mirth! -all deepening on the breeze 
As the long stormy roar of far-advancing seas! 



And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling^ 
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cryl 
And lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, 
Death bursting on the halls of revelry! 
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, 
The sword hath raged through joy's devoted 

train, 
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, 
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and 

fane. 
Empire is lost and won, Belshazzar with the slain. 

Fallen is the golden city ! in the dust 
Spoiled of her crown, dismantled of her state, 
She that hath made the Strength of Towera 

her trust, 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate ! 
She that beheld the nations at her gate. 
Thronging in homage, shall be called no more 
Lady of kingdoms! — Who shall mourn her 

fate? 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er; — 
— What widowed land shall now her widowhood 
deplore 7 

Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters ! thou whose augurs read. 
The language of the planets, and disowned 
The mighty name it blazons ! — Veil thy head, 
Daughter of Babylon ! the sword is red 
From thy destroyers' harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! — for thou hast said, 
"1 am, and none beside!" — Th' Eternal spoke, 
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke,. 

But go thou forth, O Israel! wake! rejoice! 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient 

day ! 
Renew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice, 
The mirth of timbrels! — loose the chain, and 

say 
God hath redeemed his people ! — from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise; 
— Awake ; put on thy beautiful array. 
Oh long-forsaken Zion ! to the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies ! 

And lift thy head ! — Behold thy sons returning, 
Redeemed from exile, ransomed from the chain ! 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain 
Because her children were not — dwells again 
Girt with the lovely ! — through thy streets once 

more, 
City of God ! shall pass the bridal train, 
And the bright lamps their festive radianco 

pour. 
And the triumphal hymns the joy of youth ro- 
store ! 



THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON. 

Ves, it is ours ! — the field is won, 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son, 
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield! 

Lot me not hear your trumpets ring, 

Swell not the battle-horn ! 
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, 
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne! 

Speak not of victory! — in the name 

There is too much of wo ! 
Hushed be the empty voice of Fame — 
Call me back his whose graceful head is low. 

Speak not of victory! — from my halls 

The sunny hour is gone ! 
The ancient banner on my walls 
Must sink ere long — I had but him — but one ! 

Within the dwelling of my sires 

The hearths will soon be cold, 
With me must die the beacon-fires 
That streamed at midnight from the mountain- 
hold. 

And let them fade, since this must be, 

My lovely and my brave ! 
Was thy bright blood poured forth for me. 
And is there but for stately youth a grave 7 

Speak to me once again, my boy! 

Wilt thou not hear my call 1 
Thou wert so full of life and joy, 
I had not dreampt of this— ih.3X thou couldst fall ! 

Thy mother watches from the steep 

For thy returning plume ; 

How shall I tell her that thy sleep 

Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb? 

Thou didst not seem as one to die. 
With all thy young renown! 
— Ye saw his falchion's flash on high, 
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests vvent 
down! 

Slow be your marcli! — the field is won! 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son, 
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. 



'I'hcy slco[) ! — th' Olympic wreaths are dead, 
Th' Athenian lyres are hushed and gone; 
The Dorian voic* of song is fled — 
— Slumber, ye mighty ! slumber deeply on ! 

They sleep, and seems not all around 
As hallowed unto glory's tomb 7 
Silence is on the battle ground. 
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 

And stars are watching on their height. 
But dimly .seen through mist and cloud, 
And still and solemn is the light 
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud. 

And thou, pale night-queen ! here thy beams 
Are not as those the shepherd loves, 
Nor look they down on shining streams, 
By Naiads haunted, in their laurel groves: 

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, 
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines ; 
No temple gleaming from the steep, 
'Midst the gray olives, or the mountain pines : 

But o'er a dim and boundless waste, 
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood, 
Where man's departed steps are traced 
But by his dust, amidst the solitude. 

And be it thus ! — What slave shall tread 
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains? 
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead. 
When their bright land sits weeping o'er her 
chains : 

Here, where the Persian clarion rung. 
And where the Spartan sword flashed high, 
And where the Paean strains were sung. 
From year to year swelled on by liberty! 

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, 
Until the bonds of Greece be riven. 
Save of the leader's charging word. 
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven! 

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave ! 
No vines festoon your lonely tree !* 
No harvest o'er your war-fields wave. 
Till rushing winds proclaim — the 'and is free ! 



THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. 

THE TOMBS OF PLAT^A. There have been bright and glorious pageantu 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. _„, ' , , , 

Where now gray stones and moss-grown columii.-J 
And there they sleep ! — the men who stood lie; 

In arms before th' exulting sun. 
And bathed their spears in Persian blood, ! . ^^ gj^gig (^ee appeals in Mr. Williams's impressive p)» 
And taught the earth how freedom might be won. cure. 



fOO 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



There have been words, which earth grew pale 

to hear, 
Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh: 
There have been voices, through the sunny sky, 
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes 

sending, 
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody, 
With incense-clouds around the temple blending, 
And throngs, with laurel-boughs, before the altar 

bending. 

There have been treasures of the seas and isles 
Brought to the day-god's now forsaken throne: 
Thunders have pealed along the rock-defiles. 
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known 
That foes were on their way! — the deep-wind's 

moan 
Hath chilled the invader's heart with secret fear. 
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone. 
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce 

career, 
From his bold hand have struck the banner and 

the spear. 

The shrine hath sunk ! — but thou unchanged 

art there ! 
Mountof the voice and vision, robed with dreams! 
Unchanged, and rushing through theradiant air. 
With thy dark-waving pines, and flashing 

streams. 
And all thy founts of song ! their bright course 

teems 
With inspiration yet ; and each dim haze. 
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle, veiUng from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days! 

Away, vain phantasies ! — doth less of power 
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, 
Though in deep stillness now, the ruin's flower 
Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy breast 1 
— Lifl through the free blue heavens thine arrowy 

crest ! 
Let the great rocks their solitude regain ! 
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 
With their full chords : — but silent be the strain ! 
I'hou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eternal's 

reign !* 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 

When are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth 1 — When wakes the 

foe, 
While the friend sleeps ! — When falls the traitor's 
blow? 
When are proud sceptres riven, 

This, with the preceding, and several of the following 
weces, have appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine. 



High hopes o'erthrown I — It is, when lands rejoice 
When cities blaze, and lifl th' exulting voice. 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ' 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
When mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'T was «* 

night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet pealed, ere yet the song was done, 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crowned : 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky. 
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody, 

And censers waved around; 
A nd lyres were strung, and bright libations poured, 
When, through the streets, flashed out the aveng- 
ing sword. 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound '* 

Through Rome a triumph passed. 
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry. 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendor shed 
O'er the proud march; a king in chains was led 
A stately victor, crowned and robed, came last. t 

And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels, which in waving play. 
Stirred the warm air, and glistened round his wayj 

As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Wo for the dead !— the father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song, 
In the still nighty went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, 

Swept with that voice along; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam, 
Where a chief revelled in a monarch's dome. 
And fresh rose-garlands decked a glittering throng, 

'T was Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out I — but strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close! 

Sounds by no mortal madet 
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 
And passed — and with another sunset's light. 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 



* The sword of Harmodius. 

t Paulus J5miliu3, one of whose sons died a few days be- 
fore, and another shortly after, his triumph on the coni/uest 
of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in 
chains. 

X See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of An- 
tony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Ales 
andria, the night before Antony's death. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



301 



Bright 'niidst its vineyards lay 
The fiiir Campanian city,+ with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bovvers, 

Clear in the golden day; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky, 
And crowds had filled its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepened to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space, 
As with the wings of death! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurled the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place 1 

Such things have been of yore. 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow. 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape-clusters pour; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, 
Along clear seas of melted sapphire, laving. 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! 
Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread, 
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior-dead,t 

And ancient battle-rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed, 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time. 

But ere the giant-fane 

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 

Hushed were the bards, and, in the face of Heaven, 
O'er that old burial-plain 

Flashed the keen Saxon dagger ! — Blood was 
streaming, 

Where late the mead-cup to the sun wa'fe gleam- 
ing, 

And Britain's hearths were heaped that night in 
vain. 

For they returned no more! 
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart. 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part; 

And on the rushy floor, 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was o'er ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows! 
Tame down the swelling heart! — the bridal rose, 

And the rich myrtle's flower 



• Hcrculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inha- 
liitants were assembled in the tlieau-es, when the shower of 
ashes, which covered the city, descended. 

1 Stoiiclicnje, said by some traditions to have been erected 
to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king ; and by 
others, mentioned as a monumental reaird of the massacre of 
Rritish chiefs here alluded to. 



Have veiled the sword! — Red wines have sparkled 

flist 
From venomed goblets, and soft breezes passed. 
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song. 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along, 

Like summer's quickening breath! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth, 
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth. 
So darkly pressed and girdled in by death! 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OP MOR- 
GARTEN. 



" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Lea- 
pold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested, 
that this prince repeatedly declared he 'would trample the 
audacious rustics under his feet;' and that he had procured a 
large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, 
and putting them to death. 

" The 15th October, 1315, dawned. The sun darted its firpt 
rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host; and 
this being the first army ever known to have attempted the 
frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with 
various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into 
the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the 
mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the 
eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled 
down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. 
Tlie confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression 
made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon 
the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they 
dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their 
blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the 
defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having in- 
jured tlie road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; 
many leaped into the lake ; all were startled ; and at last the 
whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the in- 
fantry ; and these last, as the nature of the country did not 
allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitivei^ 
and many of thein trampled to death. A general rout ensued, 
and Duke Leopold was, with much difficulty, rescued by a 
peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian or 
the times saw him arrive in the^vening, pale, sullen, and diss- 
mayed." — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy. 

The wine-month* shone in its golden prime, 

And the red grapes clustering hung, 
But a deeper sound through the Switzir's clime. 
Than the vintage music, rung. 
A sound, through vaulted cave, 
A sound, through echoing glen 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave; 
— 'T was the tread of steel-girt men. 

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown, 

Till the Alps replied to that voice of war, 
With a thousand of their own. 



' Wine-'/nonth, tho GeTnim name loi Octobei. 



302 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And thivjugh the forest glooms 
Flashed helmets to tlie day, 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 

in Hash's* wilds there was gleaming steel, 

As the host of the Austrian passed ; 
And the Schreckhorn'st rocks, with a savagfc peal, 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the Righit snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, 
And the leader's gathering word. 

But a band, the noblest band of all. 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 

With blazoned streamers and lances tall, 

Moved onwards, in princely state. 

They came with heavy chains 

For the race despised so long — 

— But amidst his Alp-domains, 

The herdsman's arm is strong ! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they entered the rock-defile, 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rung the while. 
But on the misty height, 
Where the mountain-people stood, 
There was stillness, as of night, 
When storms at distance brood. 

There was stillness, as of deep dead night. 

And a pause — but not of fear. 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 
On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood. 
But they looked not to the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

The pass was filled with their serried power, 

All helmed and mail-arrayed. 
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower 
In the rustling forest-shade. 

There were prince and crested knight. 
Hemmed in by cliff and flood, 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down. 

Their startled foes among. 
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — 
Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong ! 



llasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne. 
» Schreckhorn, the peak of terror, a mountain in the can- 
ton of Berne. 
• Ri-'hl, a mountain in the canton of Schvvytz. 



They came, like lauwine* hurled 

From Alp to Alp in play. 
When the echoes shout through the snowj 

world, 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir-woods crashed on the mountain-side, 

And the Switzers rushed from high. 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry: 
Like hunters of the deer, 
They stormed the narrow dell, 
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear. 
Was the arm of William Tell.t 

There was tumult in the crowded strait, 

And a cry of wild dismay. 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day! 
And the empire's banner then, 
From its place of waving free. 
Went down before the shepherd-men, 
The men of the Forest-sea.t 

With their pikes and massy clubs Ihey brake 

The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war-horse dashed to the reddening 
lake, 
From the reapers of the field ! 
The field — but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves 
In the autumn-tempest's way. 

Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viev/ed, 

When the Austrian turned to fly. 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 
Had a fearful death to die! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelmed was seen, 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, 

Went back from the battle-toil. 
To their cabin-homes 'midst the deep green hills, 
All burdened with royal spoil. 
There were songs and festal fires 
On the soaring Alps that night, 
When children sprung to greet their sires, 
From the wild Morgarten fight. 



• Laiiwinc, the Swiss name for the avalanche, 
t William Tell's name is particularly mentioned amongb 
the confederates at Morgarten. 
t Fbrest-sea, the lake of the four cantons is also socallei 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



303 



CHORUS. _^ 

TRANSLATED FROM MANZONl's ' CONTE DI 
CARMAGNOLA.' 

Haric . from the right bursts forth a trumpet's 

sound ! 
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies ! 
On everv side, hoarse echoes from the ground, 
To tlie quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, 
Hollow and deep : — and banners all around, 
Meet hostile banners waving through the skies. 
Here steel-clad bands in marshalled order shine, 
And there a host confronts their glittering line. 

Lo ! half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanished, hid by closing groups of foes ! 
Swords crossing swords, flash lightning o'er the 

fight, 
And tlie strife deepens, and the life-blood flows ! 
— Oh! who are these 1 — What stranger in his 

might 
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose 1 
What patriot hearts have nobly vowed to save 
Their native soil, and make its dust their grave 1 

One race, alas ! these foes, one kindred race. 
Were born and reared the same bright scenes 

among 1 
The stranger calls them brothers — and each face 
That brotherhood reveals ; — one common tongue 
Dwells on their lips ; — the earth on which ye trace 
Their heart's blood, is the soil from whence they 

sprung. 
One mother gave them birth — this chosen land, 
Girdled with Alps and seas, by Nature's guardian 

hand. 

Oh, grief and horror ! — Who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield 1 
What cause unhallowed and accursed, declare ! 
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? 
— Think'st thou they knowl — they but inflict and 

share 
Misery and death, the motive unrevealed ! 
Sold to a leader, sold himself to die. 
With him they strive, they fall — and ask not why. 

But are there none who love them? — Have they 

none, 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, 
And win with tears tlie husband and the son, 
Back to their homes from this polluted scene? 
And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day is 

done, 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene. 
Thoughts of the tomb ; why can not they assuage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age? 



Ask not ! — the peasant at his cabin-door 
Sits, calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour 
Destruction down, o'er fields he hath not ploughed. 
Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar. 
Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd 
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, 
Or icU of cities burning on the plain. 

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gazo, 
Fixed on his mother's lips, intent to know, 
By names of insult, those, whom future days 
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe! 
There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, 
By husbands, lovers, home in triumph borne, 
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 

Wo to the victors and the vanquished ! Wo! 
The earth is heaped, is loaded with the slain. 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow, 
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain ! 
But from th' embattled front, already, lo! 
A band recedes — it flies — all hope is vain, 
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife. 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 

As the light grain disperses in the air. 
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, 
Thus fly the vanquished, in their wild despair. 
Chased — severed — scattered — o'er the ample 

ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, 
Burst on their flight — an/ hark ! the deepening 

sound 
Of fierce pursuit! — still nearer and more near. 
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear ! 

The day is won ; — they fall — disarmed they yield, 
Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying! 
'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field. 
Oh! who may hear the murmurs of the dying? 
— Flaste ! let the tale of triumph be revealed ! 
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying, 
He spurs — he speeds — with tidings of the day. 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 

Why pour ye thus from your deserted homes, 
Oh, eager multitudes! around him pressing? 
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, 
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing 1 
Know ye not whence th' ill-omened herald comes, 
And dare ye dream he comes with words of bless- 
ing ] 
— Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold- 
Be ye content! the glorious tale is told. 

I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry! 

They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains, 

E'en now the homicides assail the sky 

With pieans, which indignant Heiven disJaiiw" 



304 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye 
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, 
And with the cruel rapture of a foe, 
Numbers the mighty, stretched in death below. 

Haste ! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! 
Haste, haste ! your triumphs and your joys sus- 
pending! 
Th' invader comes ; your banners raise anew, 
Rush to the strife, your country's cause defending! 
Victors ! why pause ye 1 — Are ye weak and few 1 
Ay, such he deemed you I and for this descending, 
He waits you on the field ye know too well. 
The same red war- field where your brethren fell. 

Oh! thou devoted land! that canst not rear 
In peace thine offspring ; thou, the lost and won. 
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 
Too narrow still for each contending son; 
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career, 
Parting thy spoils! — thy chastening is begun! 
And, wresting from thy chiefs the guardian sword. 
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wronged, sit proudly 
at thy board. 

Are these infatuate tool Oh! who hath known 
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest? 
The wronged, the vanquished, suffer not alone, 
Brief is the joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. 
What though not yet his day of pride be flown. 
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his tower- 
ing crest, 

Well hath it marked him — and ordained the hour 
When his last sigh shall own its mightier power 

Are Xve not creatures of one hand divine 1 
Formed in one mould, to one redemption born 1 
Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine. 
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn'? 
Brothers ! one bond around our souls should twine. 
And wo to him by whom that bond is torn ! 
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth 
Who bears down spirits of immortal birth ! 



Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly), in the centre 
The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the 
ceremony which announced the opening of a Go^ 
sedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in thei' 
uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet un- 
covered, within the circle of federation. — See 
Owen's Translation of the Heroic Elegies of 
Lli/warc Hen. 



THE MEETING OF THE BARDS. 

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF 
WELSH BARDS. 

Held in London, May 22d, 1822. 

The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British 
bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the 
upen air, on some conspicuous situation, wliilst the 
sun was above the horizon; or, accoi'ding to the 
expression employed on these occasions, "in the 
%(* of the sun, and in the eye of light." The 
juaces set apart for this purpose were marked out 
by a circle ot stones, called the circle of federation. 
TUe presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen 



Where met our bards of old? — the glorious 

throng. 
They of the mountain and the battle-song 7 
They met — oh! not in kingly hall or bower, 
But where wild Nature girt herself with power : 
They met — where streams flashed bright from 

rocky caves. 
They met — where woods made moan o'er war- 
riors' graves. 
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast, 
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast. 
And 'midst th' eternal cliffs, whose strength defied 
The crested Roman in his hour of pride; 
And where the Carnedd,* on its lonely hill, 
Bore silent record of the mighty still ; 
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlecht frown'd, 
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round. 
There thronged th' inspired of yore! — on plain oi 

height. 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light. 
And, baring unto heaven each noble head. 
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. 

Well might their lays be lofty ! — soaring thought 
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught; 
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the 

strains. 
Which startled eagles from their lone domains, 
And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, went 
Up through the blue resounding firmament! 

Whence came the echoes to those numbers high 'I 
— 'T was from the battle-fields of days gone by! 
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest 
With their good swords, upon the mountains 

breast ; 
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, 
Severed by cloud and storm, from all below ; 
And the turf-mounds,t once girt by ruddy spears, 
And the rock-altars of departed years. 

Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar, 
The winds a thousand wild responses bore : 
And the green land, whose every vale and glen 
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, 



* Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn; 

t Cromlech, a Druidical monument, or altar. The word 
means a stone of covenant. 

} The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued theli 
followers from small artificial mounts of turf. — feee ■Pemuin.i. 



J 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



30b 



On all hci hills awakening to rejoice, 

Sent fortii proud answers to her children's voice. 

For us, not ours the festival to liold, 

'Midst the stone-circles, hallowed thus of old ; 

Not where great Nature's majesty and might 

First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight; 

Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and 

brave, 
Not by the mountain-llyn,* the ocean wave. 
In these late days we meet! — dark Mona's shore, 
Eryri'st cliffs resound with harps no more ! 
But, as the stream (though time or art may turn 
The current, bursting from its caverned urn, 
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers, 
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest-bowers,) 
Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep. 
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep; 
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm 

and free, 
Land of the bard ! our spirit flies to thee ! 
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts be- 
long. 
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song! 
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less, 
To the green memory of thy loveliness, 
Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every 

height, 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light! 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 



Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a Xaxiil—Marmion.' 



The stately Homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their greensward bound 

Through shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet, in the ruddy light! 
There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told. 
Or lijis move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England! 

How softly on their bowers 
If laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath-hourc! 



Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 
Floats through their woods at morn; 

All other sounds, in that still time, 
Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The Cottage Homes of England! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooka, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves. 
And fearless there the lowly sleep. 

As the bird»beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homos of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall. 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall! 
And green for ever be the groves. 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Wfiere first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God 1* 



THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. 



1 have dreamt thou wert 

A captive in thy hopelessness; afar 

From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 

Whose image unto tliee is as a dream 

Of fire and slaugliter; I can see thee wasting, 

Sicli for thy native air. — L. E. L. 



The champions had come from their fields of war, 

Over the crests of the billows far, 

They had brought back the spoils of a hundred 

shores. 
Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oara. 

They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's 

board, 
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured, 
The hearth was heaped with the pine-boughs high. 
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. 

The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme. 
Their songs of the sword and the olden time, 
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung. 
Had breathed from the walls where the bright 
spears hung. 

But the swell was gone from the quivering string, 
] They had summoned a softer voice to sing, 
And a ca[)tive girl, at the warriors' call. 
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall 
! 

Lonely she stood : — in her mourntul eyes 
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies, 



• Llyn, a lake or pool. 



28" 



t Eryri, Snowdon. 



' Originally published in Blacliwood's Magazina 



And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, 
Half veiled a depth of unfathomed wo. 

Stately she stood — though her fragile frame 
Seemed struck with the blight of some inw^ard 

flame, 
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, 
Under the waves of her dark hair worn. 

And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze. 
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze ; 
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath, 
But a token of fever, at strife witft death. 

She had been torn from her home away, 
With her long locks crowned for her bridal day, 
And brought to die of the burning dreams 
That haunt the exile by foreign streams. 

They bade her s^ng of her distant land — 
She neld its lyre with a trembling hand. 
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke. 
And the stream of her voice into music broke. 

Paint was the strain, in its first wild flow. 
Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low ; 
But it swelled into deeper power ere long, 
As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong. 

" They bid me sing •f thee, mine own, my sunny 
land! of thee! 

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn- 
ful-sounding sea? 

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul? — in silence 
let me die, 

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy 
pure deep sapphire sky; 

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried 
sweetness forth 1 

Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild 
winds of the north 1 

" Yet thus it shall be once, once morel — my spirit 

shall awake. 
And through the mists of death shine cut, my 

country! for thy sake! 
That I may make thee known, with all the beauty 

and the light, 
And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's 

yearning sight! 
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright 

streams warble by, 
I'hy soul flow o'er my lips again — yet once, my 

Sicily! 

" Ttiere are blue heavens— far hence, far hence! 

but oh! their glorious blue! 
t<« very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's 

deep hue! 



It is above my own fair land, and round my laugh* 

ing home. 
And arching o'er my vintage-hills, thcj- hang their 

cloudless dome. 
And making all the waves as gems, that melt along 

the shore. 
And steeping happy hearts in joy — that now is 

mine no more. 

" And there are haunts in that green land — oh ! 
who may dream or tell. 

Of ail the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell ! 

By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and 
glossy leaves. 

And bovvers wherein the forest-dove her nest un- 
troubled weaves ; 

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the rich- 
ness of its breath. 

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from th« 
dewy moss beneath. 

" And there are floating sounds that fill the skies 
through night and day. 

Sweet sounds ! the soul to hear them faints in 
dreams of heaven away ! 

They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er 
the shining seas. 

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the 
sleepy breeze ; 

Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there ; — it were 
a bliss to die. 

As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Si- 
cily ! 

" / may not thus depart — farewell ! yet no, my 

country ! no ! 
Is not love stronger than the grave 1 I feel it must 

be so ! 
My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains 

and the main, 
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy 

woods again. 
Its passion deepens — it prevails ! — i break my 

chain — I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest — in thy sweet 

air, my home !" 



And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyro 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire, 
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold, 
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom rolled. 

For her head sank oack on the rugged wall, — 

A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall ; 

She had poured out her soul with her song's last 

tone; 
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone ' 









MISCELLANi:OUS POEMS. 301 






" Well might I know death's hue and mien, 


IVAN TFIE CZAR. 


But on thine aspect, boy! 
What, till tins inoment, have I seen, 
Save pride and tameless joy 1 




* Ivan le Terri'>le, etant deja tlevenu vieux, as- 




sicgoit Novogorod. Los Boyards, le voyant aflbibli, 


Swiftest thou wcrt to battle, 




lui domandcrent s'il ne voulait pas donner le com- 


And bravest there of all — 




mandemcnt do Tassaut a son Ills. Sa fureur fut si 


How could I think a warrior's frame 




grande a cf.'tte proposition, que ricn ne put I'ap- 


Thus like a flower should fall 1 




paiser; son fils se prosterna a ses pieds; 11 le 






ropoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que 


" I will not bear that still, cold look — 




deux jours aprcs le malheureux en mourut. Le 


Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 




pere, alors au desespoir, devint indifferent a la 


Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 




guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survecut que pou 


All, save tliis calm, from thee ! 




de mois a son fils." — Dix Annees d'Exil, par Ma- 


Lift brightly up, and proudly, 




dame DE StaEL, 


Once more thy kindling eyes ! 






Hath my word lost its power on earth"? 




Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 


I say to thee, arise ! 




Ihn wieder haben i • • * • 






* • * Trostlose allmacht, 






Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm 


" Didst thou not know I loved thee well 1 




Verlingern, eine kleine Ubereilung 


Thoa didst not! and art gone 




Mit iNIenscheiileben nicht verbessern kann ! 


In bitterness of soul, to dwell 




Sc/iiller. 


Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 




He sat in silence on the ground, 


If but one hour, to learn 




The old and haughty Czar; 


The secrets of the folded heart, 




Lonely, though princes girt him round, 


That seemed to thee so stern. 




And leaders of the war : 






He had cast his jewelled sabre, 


" Thou wert the first, the first fair child, 




That many a field had won, 


That in mine arms I pressed ; 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 




To the earth beside his youthful dead, 




His fair and first-born son. 


Like summer on my breast ! 




With a robe of ermine for its bed, 


I reared thee as an eagle, 




"Was laid that form of ciay, 


To the chase thy steps I led, 




Where the light a stormy sunset shed, 


I bore thee on my battle-horse. 




Through the rich tent made way: 


I look upon thee — dead ! 




And a sad and solemn beauty 






On the pallid face came down, 


" Lay down my warlike banners here. 




Which the Lord of nations mutely watched, 


Never again to wave. 




In the dust, with his renown. 


And bury my red sword and spear, 
Chiefs! in my first-born's grave' 




Low tones, at last of wo and fear 


And leave me!— I have conquered. 




From his full bosom broke ; — 


I have slain — my work is done ! 




A mournful thing it was to hear 


Whom have I slain 1 — ye answer not — 




How then the proud man spoke! 


Thou too art mute, my son !" 




The voice that through the combat 






Had shouted far and high, 






Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones. 


And thus his wild lament was poured 




Burdened with agony. 


Through the dark resounding night, 




And the battle knew no more his sword, 




" There is no crimson on thy cheek, 


Nor the foaming steed his might. 




And on thy lip no breath, 


He heard strange voices moaning 




I call thee, and dost thou not speak — 


In every wind that sighed ; 




They tell me this is death ! 


From the searching stars of heaven he shrank 




And fearful things arc whispering 


Humbly the conqueror died.* 




That I the deed have done — 
For the honour of thy father's name, 








Look up, look up, my son ! 


• Originally published in tlie Literary Souvenir foa iffT- 





303 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



OAROLAN'S PROPHECY.* 



Thy cheek too swiftly flushes; o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast, 
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth ; oh! tlierefore, child of song 
'Tis well thou shouldst depart. 



A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, 
Came suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. — Again it rose, 
And sank in mournfulness. — There sat a bara. 
By a blue stream of Eriri, where it swept 
Flashing through rock and wood; the sunset's light 
Was on his wavy silver-gleaming hair, 
And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash, 
Whose clusters drooped above. His head was 

bowed. 
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 
Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood, 
Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 
Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song; 
Many, and graceful forms! yet one alone. 
Seemed present to his dream; and she indeed. 
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, 
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, 
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful. 
E'en painfully ! — a creature to behold 
With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen 
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 
Too dim without its brightness ! — Did such fear 
O'ershadow, in that hour, the gifted one, 
By his own rushing stream 1 — Once more he gazed 
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more 
From the deep chords his wandering hand brought 

out 
A few short festive notes, an opening strain 
Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief, 
As if some wailing spirit in the strings 
Met and o'ermastered him : but yielding then 
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully. 
Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he poured 
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang — 

Voice of the grave ! 

1 hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, 

In the sear leaf's trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree. 

I hear thee, O thou voice 1 
And 1 would thy warning were but foi me, 

That my spirit might rejoice. 



* Founded on a circunistanrg related of the Irish Bard, 
In the " Percy Anecdotes of Imagination." 



But thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care 1 
They hear the wind's low sigh, 

And the river sweeping free, 
And the green reeds murmuring heavi._ 

And the woods — but they hear not thee ! 

Long have I striven 

With my deep foreboding soul, 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, 

And darkly on must roll. 
There 's a young brow smiling near, 

With a bridal white-rose wreath, — 
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, 

Touched solemnly by death ! 

Fair art thou Morna ! 

The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 

On the dark-blue summer sky! 
And th}' voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rill. 
That makes the dim woods tuneful round — 

But soon it must be still! 

Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie. 
Make not the strength of love thy trust, 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flow 

That my hand for thee hath tried, 
But into dirge-notes wild and low, 

Its ranging tones have died. 

Young art thou, Morna! 

Yet on thy gentle head. 
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves, 

A spirit hath been shed ! 
And the glance is thine which sees 

Through nature's awful heart — 
But bright things go with the summer-breeae 

And thou too, must depart! 

Yet shall I weep^ 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep. 

Too powerful for thy rest ! 
And the bitterness I know, 

And the chill of this world's breath- 
Go, all undimmed, in thy glory go! 

Young and crowned bride of death ! 

Take hence to heaven 

Thy holy tlioughts and bright. 
And soaring hopes, that were not given 

For the touch of mortal blight ! 
Might we follow in thy track. 

This parting should not be! 
But the spring shall give us violets back, 

And every flower but thee ! 



There was a burst of tears around the hard: 
All wept hut one, and she serenely stood, 
With her clear hrow and dark religious eye, 
Raised to the first faint star ahove the hills, 
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek 
Was paler than before. — So Morna heard 
I'he minstrel's prophecy. 

And spring returned, 
Bringing the earth her lovely things again. 
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 



THE MOURNER FOR THE BARME- 
CIDES. 

O good old man ! how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times. 

As You Like It. 

Fallen was the House of Giafar; and its name. 

The high romantic name of Barmecide, 

A sound forbidden on its own bright shores. 

By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's 

wrath, 
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, 
Had so passed sentence : but man's chainless heart 
Hides that within its depths, which never yet 
Th' oppressor's thought could reach. 

'Twas desolate 
Where Giafar's halls, beneatt the burning sun. 
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased ; 
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii-tales. 
Had ceased ; the guests were gone. Yet still one 

voice 
Was there — the fountain's ; through those eastern 

courts. 
Over the broken marble and the grass, 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

A nd still another voice ! — an aged man, 

Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath 

His silvery hair, came, day by day. and sate 

On a white column's fragment; and drew forth. 

From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 

A tone that shook them with its answering thrill 

To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale 

He told that sad yet stately solitude. 

Pouring his memory's fullness o'er its gloom. 

Like waters in the waste; and calling up, 

By song or high recital of their deeds. 

Bright solemn shadows of its vanished race 

To people their own halls : with these alone, 

In all this rich and breatliing world, his thoughts 

Held still unbroken converse. He had been 

Reared in this lordly dwelling, and was now 



The ivy of its ruins; unto which 
His fading life seemed bound. Day rolled on day 
And from that scene the loneliness was fled; 
For crowds around the gray-haired chroniclei 
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts 
Fear with deep feeling strives ; till, as a breeze 
Wanders through forest-branches, and is met 
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves. 
The spirit of his passionate lament. 
As through their stricken souls it passed, awoke 
One echoing murmur. — But this might not be 
Under a despot's rule, and summoned thence. 
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne: 
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, 
And with his white lips rigidly compressed; 
Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak 
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine 

forth. 
Was it to sue for grace "^ — his burning heart 
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye. 
And he was changed! — and thus, in rapid words, 
Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than 

death found way. 

" And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble 
and the brave, 

With the glory on their brows, are gone before 
me to the grave 1 

What is there left to look on now, what bright- 
ness in the land! — 

1 hold in scorn the faded world, that wants theit 
princely band! 

" My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes, that 

in your halls was nursed, 
That followed you to many a fight, where flashed 

your sabres first ; 
That bore your children in his arms, your name 

upon his heart — 
Oh! must the music of that name with him from 

earth depart 1 

" It shall not be! — a thousand tongues, though hu- 
man voice were still, 

With that high sound the living air triumphantly 
shall fill ; 

The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wander- 
ing seeds are sown. 

And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep 
and thrilling tone. 

" For it is not as a flower whose scent with tno 

dropping leaves expires. 
And it is not as a household lamp, that a bream 

should quench its fires; 
It is written on our battle-fields with the wntmg 

of the sword. 
It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in oles* 

ings poured. 



310 MUS. I!1<:)MANS' WORKS. 


"Tho founts, tho many gushing I'ounls, wliicli to 


A dim and deeply-bosomed grove 


the wild ye gave, 


Of many an aged tree, 


Of you, my chiefs, shall sing alouJ, as they pour 


Such as the shadowy violets love. 


a joyous wave; 


The fawn and forost-bec. 


And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye 

hung the pilgrim's way, 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your 

praises on the day. 


The darkness of the chestnut bough 

There on the waters lay, 
The bright stream reverently below, 

Checked its exulting play; 


" The very walls your bounty reared, for the 
stranger's homeless head, 

Shall find a murmur to record your talc, my glo- 
rious dead ! 

Though tiie grass he where ye feasted once, where 


And bore a music all subdued. 
And led a silvery sheen, 

On through the breathing solitude 
Of that rich leafy scene. 


lute and cittern rung. 


For something viewlessly around 


And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst 


Of solemn influence dwelt, 


Its young. 


In the soft gloom, and whispery sound, 




Not to be told, but felt : 


" It is enough ! mine eye no more of joy or splen- 




dour sees, 


While sending forth a quiet gleam 


I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and 


Across the wood's repose, 


to the breeze ! 


And o'er the twilight of the stream. 


[ go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the 


A lowly chapel rose. 


bright and fair, 
And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my 
chiefs, are there !" 


A pathway to that still retreat 

Through many a myrtle wound. 
And there a sight — how strangely sweet 1 


But while the old man sang, a mist of tears 


My steps in wonder bound. 


O'er llaroun's eyes had gathered, and a thought — 


For on a brilliant bed of flowers. 


Oh I many a sudden and remorseful thought 


Even at the threshold made, 


Of his youth's once-loved friends, the martyred 


As if to sleep through sultry hours. 


race 


A young fair child was laid. 


O'erdowod his softening heart. — " Live, live," he 
cried, 


To sleep? — oh! ne'er on childhood's eye. 


" Thou faithful unto death ! live on, and still 


And silken lashes pressed, 


Speak of thy lords ; they were a princely band !" 


Did the warm living slumber lie, 
With such a weight of rest ! 


= 


Yet still a tender crimson glow 


THE SPANISH CHAPEL.* 


Its cheek's pure marble dyed — 
'T was but the light's faintstreaming flow 




Through roses heaped beside. 


Weep not for those whom the veil of tho tomb, 


I stooped — the smooth round arm was chill, 


In life's early morning, hatli hid from our eyes, 
Rre sin throw a veil o'er the spiiit's young bloom, 
Or earth had profatied what was born for the skies. 

Moore. 


The soft lip's breath was fled, 
And the bright ringlets hung so still — 
The lovely child was dead ! 




" Alas !" I cried, " fair faded thing ! 


f MADE a mountain-brook my guide, 


Thou hast wrung bitter tears. 


Through a wild Spanish glen, 


And thou hast left a wo, to cling 


And wandered on its grassy side, 


Round yearning hearts for years!" 


Far from the homes of men. 


But then a voice came sweet and low — 


[t lured me with a singing tone, 

And many a sunny glance, 
To a green spot of beauty lone, 


I turned, and near me sate 
A woman with a mourner's brow. 
Pale, yet not desolate. 


A haunt for old romance. 


And in her still, clear, matron face, 




All solemnly serene, 
A shadowed image I could trace 


Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the "Recol- 


ectionfi of the Peninsula." 


Of that young slumberer's miea 



" Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said, 
Willi lips that faintly smiled, 

•' As here I watch beside my dead, 
My lair and precious child. 

" But know, the time-worn heart may be 
By pangs in this world riven, 

Keener than theirs who yield, like me, 
An angel thus to Heaven !" 



THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT. 



Tlie prisoned thrush may brook the cage, 
The captive eagle dies for rage. 

Lady oj the Lake, 



'TwAs a trumpet's pealing sound! 
And the knight looked down from the Paynim's 

tower, 
And a Christian host in its pride and power. 

Through the pass beneath him wound. 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still! 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam. 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream, 

And their plumes to the glad wind float! 
Jease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" 1 am here, with my heavy chain ! 
And I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
And an eagle rushing to the sky, 

And a host, to its battle-plain! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" Must I pine in my fetters here 7 
W'.th the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's 

flight. 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight, 

And the trumpet in mine ear? 
Cease awhile, clarion ! Clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — bo Siil ! 

" They are gone ! they have all passed by 1 
They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
Tbev that I loved with a brother's heart. 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion! Clarion pour thy blast! 
So'iad! for the captive's drearn of hope is past." 



THE KAISER'S FEAST. 

liOuis, Emperor of Germany, having put hia brother, the 
Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of tlic empire, (in the 
12tli century,) tliat unfortunate Prince tied to England, whcra 
lie died in neglect and poverty. "After hia decease, his 
motlier, Matilda, privately invited his diildren to return tc 
Germany; and Ijy her mediation, during a season of festivity 
when Louis kept wassail in the Castle of Heidelberg, the family 
of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of 
suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appea 
the victor softened."— A/;ss Benger'a Memoirs of t 
Queen of Bohemia. 

The Kaiser feasted in his hall, 

The red wine mantled high; 
Banners were trembling on the wall, 

To the peals of minstrelsy: 
And many a gleam and sparkle came 

From the armour hung around. 
As it caught the glance of the torch's flame, 

Or the hearth with pine boughs crowned. 

Why fell there silence on the chord 

Beneath the harper's hand? 
And suddenly, from that rich board, 

Why rose the wassail-band 1 
The strings were hushed— the knights made way 

For the queenly mother's tread, 
As up the hall, in dark array. 

Two fair-haired boys she led. 

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place, 

And still before him stood; 
Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 

Flushed the proud warrior-blood : 
And " Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried. 

" Wherefore this mourning vest? 
And the clinging children by thy side, 

In weeds of sadness drestl" 

" Well may a mourning vest be mine, 

And theirs, my son, my son! 
Look on the features of thy line 

In each fair little one ! 
Though grief awhile within their eyes 

Hath tamed the dancing glee. 
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies — 

Thy brother's children seel 

" And where is he, thy brother, where : 

He, in thy home that grew, 
AiuiJ smiling, with his sunny hair, 

Kver to greet thee flew ? 
Hivw would his arms thy neck entwine. 

His fond lips press thy brow! 
My son! oh, call these orphans thine—- 

Thou hast no brother now 1 



312 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" "What! from their gentle eyes doth nought 

Speak of thy childhood's hours, 
And smite thee with a tender thought 

Of thy dead father's towers'? 
Kind was thy boyish heart and true, 

When reared together there, 
Through the old woods like fawns ye flew — 

Where is thy brother — where 1 

'' Well didst thou love him theri, and he 

Still at thy side was seen! 
How is it that such things can be, 

As though they ne'er had been? 
Evil was this vi-orld's breath, which came 

Between the good and brave! 
Now must the tears of grief and shame 

Be offered to the grave. 

" And let them, let them there be poured ! 

Though all unfelt below, 
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored, 

Shall softeH as they flow. 
Oh! death is mighty to make peace; 

Now bid his work be done ! 
So many an inward strife shall cease — 

Take, take these babes, my son!" 

His eye was dimmed — the strong man shook 

With feelings long suppressed ; 
Up in his arms the boys he took. 

And strained them to his breast. 
And a shout from all in the royal hall 

Burst forth to hail the sight; 
And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met 

At the Kaiser's feast that night. 



ULLA, OR THE ADJURATION. 



Yet speak to me ! I have outwatched tlie stars. 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in searcli of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wandered o'er the eartli, 
And never found thy likeness.— Speak to me ' 
This once — once more I 

Manfred. 

" Thou 'rt gone ! — thou 'rt slumbering low, 

With the sounding seas above thee ; 
It i? but a restless wo, 

But a haunting dream to love thee ! 
Thrice the glad swan has sung. 

To greet the spring-lime hours. 
Since thine oar at parting flung 

The white spray up in showers. 

There 's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth, and 

round thy home ; 
Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou 'rt surely 

of them — come'" 



'T was Ulla's voice — alone she stood 

In the Iceland summer night, 
For gazing o'er a glassy flood, 

From a dark rock's beetling height. 

" I know thou hast thy bed 

Where the sea-weed's coil hath boui.d thee . 
The storm sweeps o'er thy head. 

But the depths are hushed around thee. 
What wind shall point the way 

To the chambers where thou 'rt lying? 
Come to me thence, and say 

If thou thougiit'st on me in dying ? 

I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip 

and cheek — 
Come to me from tlie ocean's dead ! — thou 'rt surely 

of them — speak !" 

She listened — 't was the wind's low moan, 
'T was the ripple of the wave, 

'T was the wakening ospray's cry alone, 
As it started from its cave. 

" I know each fearful spell ♦ 

Of the ancient Runic lay, 
Whose muttered words compel 

The tempest to obey. 
But I adjure not thee 

By magic sign or song, 
My voice shall stir the sea 

By love, — the deep, the strong ! 

By the might of woman's tears, by the passion ot 

her sighs, 
Come to me from the ocean's dead — by the vows 

we pledged — arise !" 

Again she gazed with an eager glance, 
Wandering and wildly bright ; 

She saw but the sparkling waters dance 
To the arrowy northern hght. 

" By the slow and struggling death 

Of hope that loathed to part. 
By the fierce and withering breath 

Of despair on youth's high heart ; 
By the weight of gloom which clings 

To the mantle of the night, 
By the heavy dawn which brings 

Nought lovely to the sight. 

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung 

of grief and fear. 
Come to me from the ocean's dead — awake, arise, 

appear !" 

Was it her yearning spirit's dream, 

Or did a pale form rise, 
And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam 

With bright, still, mournful eyes? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



3l3 



" Have the dep'.hs heard? — they have! 

My voice prevails — thou 'rt there, 
Dim from thy watery grave, 

Oh I thou that vvert so fair ! 
Yet take me to thy rest ! 

There dwells no fear with love; 
Let me slumber on thy breast, 

While the billows roll above ! 

Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the 

bright ones have their home, 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead — stay for 

me, stay ! — I come !" 

There was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the mv n, 
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's wo. 

Shut — and grew still again. 



THE EFFIGIES. 



Der rasclie Kampf verewigteinen Mann: 
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. 
Allein die Thranen, die uiiendlichen 
Der uberbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau, 
Zahlt lieine Nachwelt. 

Goethe. 



Warrior ! whose image on thy tomb 

With sliield and crested head, 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stained window shed; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have fiided from the stone, 
Yet, through a cloud of years I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner, from its flashing spear 

Flung out o'er many a fight, 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine ; 
A haughty heart and a kingly glance — 

Chief! were not these things thine: 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council-board; 
In festive halls a chair of state 

When the blood-red wine was poured 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard ; 
Surely these things were all thine own, 

So hadst thou thy reward. 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the armed knight is laid, 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes arrayed; 
W 29 



What was thy tale? — Oh! gentle mate 

Of him, the bold and free. 
Bound unto his victorious fate. 

What bard hath sung of thee? 

He wooed a bright and summer star — 

Thine was the void, the gloom, 
The' straining eye that followed far 

His fast receding plume ; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang — but when did I^ame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these? 

Thy silent and secluded hours 

Through many a lonely day, 
While bending o'er thy broidered flowers, 

With spirit far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for hira 

Who fought on Syrian plains. 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim — 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still, sad life was thine ! — long years 

With tasks unguerdoned fraught, 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayer at the cross in fervor poured, 

Alms to the pilgrim given — 
Oh ! happy, happier than thy lord. 

In that lone path to heaven! 



THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. 



And slight, -withal, maybe the things which bring 
Bacic on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside forever; — it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's breath, or spring — 

A flower — a leaf— the ocean — which may wound — 
Strilving th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. 

Childe Harold. 



The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, 
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, our own no 
more; 
Is not this all a mystery ? — Who shall say 
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends 
their way ? 

The sudden images of vanished things. 

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why , 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings 
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by, 

A rippling wave — the dashing of an oar — 

A flower scent floating past our narents' door 



314 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



A word — scarce noted in its hour perchance, 
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 

A smile — a sunny or a mournful glance, 

Full of sweet meanings now from this world 
flown; 

Are not these mysteries when to life they start. 

And press vain tears in gushes to the heart 1 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams. 
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, 

And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams. 
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread ; 

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear, — 

These are night's mysteries — who shall make 
them clear ^ 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, 
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, 

In a low tone which nought can drown or still. 
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall 1 

Why shakes the spirit thusl — 't is mystery all! 

Darkly we move — we press upon the brink 
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; 

Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think, 

Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 

Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made — 

Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed ! 

Humbly — for knowledge strives in vain to feel 
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind; 

Yet undismayed — for do they not reveal 

Th' immortal being with our dust entwined 1 

So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake 

Shall then be blest, tor that high nature's sake. 



THE PALM-TREE.* 

It waved not through an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby; 
It was not fanned by southern breeze 
In some green isle of Indian seas, 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew 
Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould. 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 
Puroled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Stiange looked it there ! — the willow streamed 
Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; 
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the Desert's Tree, 



This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem 
af "lies Jardins" 



And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours — 
Rich music filled that garden's bowers; 
Lamps that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colours flung, 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, midst the throng, 
Seemed reckless of all dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien. 
Whereon the Indian sun had been. 
Of crested brow, and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the Palm-tree there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes. 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms : 
He passed the pale green olives by. 
Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole Palm he came. 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him, its rustling spoke. 

The silence of his soul it broke! 

It whispered of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Aye, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea-wave's moan ! 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar, 
The conch-note heard along the shore ;^ 
All through his wakening bosom swept : 
He clasped his country's Tree and wept ! 

Oh! scorn him not ! — the strength, whereby 

The patriot girds himself to die, 

Th' unconquerable power, which fills 

The freeman battling on his hills. 

These have one fountain deep and clear — 

The same whence gushed that child-like tear ! 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 



Thou giv'st me flowers, thou glv'st me songs ;~bring tatli 
Tlie love that I have lost I 



What wak'st thou. Spring] — sweet voices in Iho 
woods. 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mufe. 
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flutu. 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee 
Ev'n as our hearts may be. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



315 



And the leaves greet thee, Spring! — the joyous 
leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
glade, 
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 
When thy south-wind hath pierced the whis- 
pery shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters — they too hear thy call. 
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep. 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

■ And flowers- -the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours. 

And penciling the wood-anemone; 
Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring ! 

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 
rhou that giv'st back so many a bu-ried thing. 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou 
art, 

What wak'st thou in the heart "f j 

Too much, oh I there too much! we know not well 

Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, 

What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep 

cell, ; 

Gush for the faces we no more may see! I 

How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, } 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more, j 

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet. 

Past words of welcome to our household door, 
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 

Spring ! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 
Why, why reviv'st thou these? I 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back ' 

With thy young birds, and leaves, and Hving 

blooms 1 I 

Oh! is It not, that from thine earthly track ' 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? 

yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air, I 

Brc ithed by our loved ones there ! I 



There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, 
Banners were lifted and streaming free ; 
Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire. 
Like a shooting meteor was every spire; 
And the outline of many a dome on high 
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. 

I passed through the streets; there were throngs 

on throngs — 
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs- 
There was music forth from each palace borne — • 
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn; 
The forests heard it, the mountains rang. 
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang ; 
Rich and victorious was every tone. 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 
Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain? 
Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain ! 
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell — 
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell ; 
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread, 
And bowing the beauty of woman's head: 
Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender 

moan, 
For the many brave to their slumbers gone? 

I saw not the face of a weeper there — 
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare ! 
I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd 
The music of victory was all too loud ! 
Mighty it rolled on the winds afar. 
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car; 
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by — 
How could I listen for moan or sigh 1 

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn, 
If its deep story thy heart would learn ! ^ 

Ever too bright is that outward show, 
DazzUng the eyes till they see not wo. 
But lift the proud mantle which hides firom thy 

view 
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true 
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal — 
So must thy spirit be taught to feel ! 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 



There blend Ihe ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joys visits when most brief. 

Bernard Barton. 



THE ILLUMINATED CITY. 

The hills are glowed with a festive light 
For the royal city rejoiced by night : 



By the soft green light in the woody glaae, 
! On the banks of moss where thy childhood played • 
By the household tree through which thme eye 
First looked in love to the summer-skv ; 



By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 
Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream. 

Which hath lulled thee into many a dream ; 

By the shiver of the ivy-leaves 

To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves, 

By the bees' deep murmur in the limes, 

By the music of the Sabbath-chimes, 

By every sound of thy native shade, 

Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gatheiing round the winter hearth, 

When twilight called into household mirth ; 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told ; 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night ;" 

By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 

Over thy life has a spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift !— it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall, 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home ; 
Think thou again of the woody glade. 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made. 
Think of the tree at thy father's door. 
Ana the kindly spell shall have power once more! 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. 



Roma, Roma, Roma ! 
Non § piu come era prima. 



Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou satst a queen. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street. 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bowed at thy feet. 



They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee nowl- 

Thou hast thy skies ! 

Blue, deeply blue, they are, 

Gloriously bright ! 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With coloured light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome, for thy dower. 
Flushing tall cypress-bough, 

Temple and tower ! 

And all sweet sounds are thine. 

Lovely to hear. 
While night, o'er tomb and shrine 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn, 

By starlight sung, 
Sweeps through the arches dim, 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell. 

On thy soft air 
Lingers, and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the South's rich gift 

Of sudden song, 
A charmed fountain, swift, 

Joyous, and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that move 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 



THE DISTANT SHIP. 

The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast 

Shoots like a glancing star. 
While the red radiance of the west 

Spreads kindling fast and far ; 
And yet that splendour wins thee not,— 

Thy still and thoughtful eye 
Dwells but on one dark distant spot 

Of all the main and skv 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



3n 



Look round thee ! — o'er the slumbering deep 

A solemn glory broods ; 
A fire hath touched the beacon-steep, 

And all the golden woods : 
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 

Burn within the amber light ; — 
What spell, from that rich pageantry, 

Chains down thy gazing sight 1 

A softening thought of human cares, 

A feeling linked to earth ! 
Is not yon speck a bark, which bears 

The loved of many a hearth "? 
Oh ! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, 

Crowd her frail world even now. 
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear, 

Follow her venturous prow 1 

Bright are the floating clouds above, 

The glittering seas below ; 
But we are bound by cords of love 

To kindred weal and wo. 
Therefore, amidst this wide array 

Of glorious things and fair. 
My soul is on that bark's lone way, 

For human hearts are there. 



THE BIRDS OP PASSAGE. 

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring 1 
— " We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 
From the palms that vifave through the Indian sky. 
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 

" We have swept o'er cities in song renowned — 

Silent they lie, with the deserts round ! 

We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath 

rolled 
All dark with the warrior-blood of old; 
And each worn wing hath regained its home, 
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam 1 
— " We have found a change, we have found a pall. 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall. 
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt, — 
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built !" 

Oh! joyous birds, it hath still lieen so; 
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! 
But the huts of the hamlet 4ie still and deep, 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. 
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot. 
Since last ye parted from tiiat sweet spot 1 

" A change we have found there — and many a 

change ! 
Faces and footsteps and all things strange ! 
29* 



Gone are the heads of the silvery hair. 

And the young that were, have a brow of care, 

And the place is hushed when the children 

played, — 
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made !" 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth. 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air, 
Ye have a guide, and shall ue despair "? 
Ye over desert and deep have passed, — 
So may we reach our bright home at last! 



MOZART'S REaUIEM. 



A short time before the death of Mozart, a 
stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in 
deep mourning, called at his house, and requested 
him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the 
funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive 
imagination of the composer immediately seized 
upon the circumstances as an omen of his own 
fate ; and the nervous anxiety with which ne la- 
boured to fulfil the task, had the eflfect of realizing 
his impression. He died within a few days after 
completing this magnificent piece of music, which 
was performed at his interment. 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion. 

Prophecy of Dante. 

A REaoiEM ! — and for whom? 

For beauty in its bloom ? 
For valour fallen — a broken rose or sword"? 

A dirge for king or chief. 

With pomp of stately grief. 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored I 

Not so, it is not so! 

That warning voice I know. 
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 

A solemn funeral air 

It called me to prepare. 
And my heart answered secretly — my own! 

One more then, one more strain, 

In links of joy and pain 
Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral ! 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay — the last of all! 

The last ! — and I must go 

From this bright world below, 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sounj 

Must leave its festal skies. 

With all their melodies, 
That ever in my breast glad echoes found 



S18 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Yet have I known it long 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame ; 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent, 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind, 

Which none may stay or bind, 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul ; 

I strive with yearnings vain. 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine, 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. 

Shall 1 then /ear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown 1— 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire. 

And this unsettled fire, 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 

One more then, one more strani, 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell T 

I pour each fervent thought 

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, 
into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. 



THE IMAGE IN LAVA.* 

Thou thing of years departed ! 

What ages have gone by, 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony ! 

Temple and tower have mouldered, 
Empires from earth have passed. 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast ! 

And childhood's fragile image 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Survives the proud memorials reared 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe 1 wert thou brightly slumbering 
Upon thy mother's breast. 

When suddenly the fiery tomb 
Snuc round each gentle guest 1 



The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasp- 
V to Uie bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. 



A strange dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs — 
Yet better than to part ! 

Haply of that fond bosom, 

On ashes here impressed, 
Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 

Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavished, 

Its other love had been, 
And where it trusted, nought remained 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better then to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp. 
Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 

From that impassioned grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old. 
To gaze on this rude monument, 

Cast in affection's mould. 

Love, human love ! what art thou 1 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 

Immortal, oh ! immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 

Hath given these ashes holiness — 
It must, it must be so ! 



FAIRY FAVOURS. 



. Give me but 

Something whereunto I may bicd my heart ; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affection's tendrils round. 



WouLDST thou wear the gift of immortal blooM 1 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb 
Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought ; 
Drink, and the spoiler shall pass thee by. 
When the young all scattered like rose-leaves lifl, 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, 
If the loved had left me, one by one 1 
Take back the cup that may never bless, 
The gift that would make me brotherless ! 
How should I live, with no Icindred eye 
To reflect mine immortality ? 

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, 
Over the mighty in air that dwell 1 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steer 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep 1 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band 
Slaves to thy will, shall around tUee stani. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



31!) 



And would not fear, at my coming then, 
Hush every voice in the homes of men 1 
Would not briglit eyes in my presence quail 1 
Young cheeks with a nameless tlirill turn pale 1 
No gilt be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn ! 

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose 1 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charmed to show 
When a change comes over affection's glow ; 
Look on its flushing or fading hue, 
And learn if the trusted be false or true ! 

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, 
Though my heart's wealth be but poured on dust ! 
Let not a doubt in my soul have place. 
To dim the light of a loved one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile — 
That glory would pass could I look on guile! 

Say then what boon of my power shall be 
Favoured of spirits ! poured forth on thee 1 
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine, 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine. 
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest^ 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best ? 

Oh ! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, 
But a human heart where my own may lean ! 
A friend, one tender and faithful friend, 
Whose thoughts' free cTirrent with mine may blend, 
And leaving not either on earth alone, 
Bid the brisht calm close of our lives be one I 



A PARTING SONG. 



" Oh ! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelqefois mes vers ; mon 
ame y est empreinte." — Corinne. 



When will ye think of me, my friends 1 

When will ye think of me? 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away. 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught. 
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought ; 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kmd friends 1 

When will ye think of me 7 — 
When she rose of the rich midsummer time 
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime • 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled 
Froiii .hij walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread ; , 

Then let it be ! 



When will ye think of me, sweet friends 1 

When will ye think of me 7 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody ; 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream ; 
Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
From whom 't is well to be fled and gone ; 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found ; 

So let it be. . 



THE BRIDAL DAY. 

On a monument in a Venetian church is an 
epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are 
those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while 
standing as a bride at the altar. 



We bear her linme ! we bear her home I 
Over the murmuring salt sea's foam; 
One who has fled Irom the war of life, 
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife. 

Barry Corrtwa^ 

Bride! upon thy marriage-day. 
When thy gems in rich array 
Made the glistening mirror seem 
As a star-reflecting stream. 
When the clustering pearls lay fair 
'Midst thy braids of sunny air. 
And the white veil o'er thee streaming, 
Like a silvery halo gleaming. 
Mellowed all that pomp and light 
Into something meekly bright ; 
Did the fluttering of thy breath 
Speak of joy or wo beneath 1 
And the hue that went and came 
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame. 
Flowed that crimson from th' unrest, 
Or the gladness of thy breast? 
— Who shall tell us ? — from thy bower, 
Brigntly didst thou pass that hour; 
With the many-glancing oar, 
And the citeer along the shore, 
And the wealth of summer flowers 
On thy fair head cast in showers, 
And the breath of song and flute, 
And the clarion's glad salute. 
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide 
Wert thou borne in pomp, youno- bri<i*< '. 
Mirth and music, sun and sky, 
Welcomed thee triumphantly ! 



320 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Yet, perchance, a chastening thought, 
In some deeper opirit wrought, 
Whispering, as untold it blent 
With the sounds of merriment, — 
"From the home of childhood's glee 
From the days of laughter free, 
From the love of many years. 
Thou art gone to cares and fears ! 
To another path and guide. 
To a bosom yet untried ! 
Bright one ! oh ! there well may be 
Trembling 'midst our joy for thee." 

Bride ! when through the stately fane, 

Circled with thy nuptial train, 

'Midst the banners hung on high 

By thy warrior-ancestry, 

'Midst those mighty fathers dead, 

In soft beauty thou wast led ; 

When before the shrine thy form 

duivered to some bosom storm, 

When, like harp-strings with a sigh 

Breaking in mid-harmony. 

On thy lip the murmurs low 

Died with love's unfinished vow; 

When, like scattered rose-leaves, fled 

From thy cheek each tint of red, 

And the light forsook thine eye. 

And thy head sank heavily. 

Was that drooping but th' excess 

Of thy spirit's blessedness 1 

Or did some deep feeling's might. 

Folded in thy heart from sight. 

With a sudden tempest shower. 

Earthward bear thy life's young flower 1 

— Who shall tell us? — on tky tongue 

Silence, and for ever, hung! 

Never to thy lip and cheek 

Rushed again the crimson streak 

Never to thine eye returned 

That which there had beamed and burned! 

With the secret none might know. 

With thy rapture or thy wo, 

With thy marriage-robe and wreath, 

Thou wert fled, young bride of death! 

One, one lightning moment there 

Struck down triumph to despair. 

Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust, 

Into darkness — terror — dust! 

There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, 

Bride I as forth thy kindred bore thee, 

Shrouded in thy gleaming veil. 

Deaf to that wild funeral-wail. 

Yet perchance a chastening thought. 

In some deeper spirit wrought. 

Whispering, while the stern sad knell 

On the air's bright stillness fell ; 

— " From the power of chill and change 

Souls to sever and estrange ; 



From love's wane — a death in life 
But to watch — a mortal strife : 
From the secret fevers known 
To the burning heart alone. 
Thou art fled — afar, away — 
Where these Wights no more have sway I 
Bright one! oh! there well may be 
Comfort 'midst our tears for thee !" 



THE ANCESTRAL SONG. 



A long war disturbed your mind — 
Here your perfect peace is signed, 
'T is now full tide 'twixt night and day, 
End your moan, and come away ! 

Webster — Duchess of Malfy. 



There were faint sounds of weeping ; — fear and 

gloom 
And midnight vigil in a stately room 
Of Lusignan's old halls : — rich odours there 
Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air. 
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver thrown. 
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone 
Over a gorgeous couch : — there emeralds gleamed, 
And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed 
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set. 
Hiding from sunshine. — Many a carcanet 
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain 
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain. 
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath 
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, 
Hung drooping solemnly; — for there one lay 
Passing from all Earth's glories fast away, 
Amidst those queenly treasures: They had been 
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands, 
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen 
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands 
Had pressed them to her languid heart once more 
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er- 
Love's last vain clinging unto life ; and now — 
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow. 
Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed. 
Though not from Earth, from all it knew or loved. 
Far, far away ! her handmaids watched around. 
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound 
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light 
Of wind-swayed lamps, made spectral in their sight 
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair, 
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair. 
Long in the dust grown dim ; and she, too, saw. 
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe. 
Those pictured shapes! — a bright, yet solemn 

train, 
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain, 
Clothed in diviner hues ; wh-ile on her ear 
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



321 



Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh 
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky : 
And thus it seemed, in that low thrilHng tone, 
Th' ancestral shadows called away their own. 

Come, come, come ! 
Long thy fainting soul hath yearned 
For the step that ne'er returned ; 
Long thine anxious ear hath listened. 
And thy watchful eye hath glistened 
With the hope, whose parting strife 
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life — 
Now the heavy day is done. 
Home awaits thee, wearied one 1 

Come, come, come! 

From the quenchless thoughts that burn 
In the sealed heart's lonely urn ; 
From the coil of memory's chain 
Wound about the throbbing brain, 
From the veins of sorrow deep, 
Winding through the world of sleep ; 
From the haunted halls and bowers, 
Thronged with ghosts of happier hours ! 
Come, come, come ! 

On our dim and distant shore 

Aching love is felt no more ! 

We have loved with earth's excess — 

Past is now that weariness ! 

We have wept, that weep not now — 

Calm is each once beating brow ! 

We have known the dreamer's woes — 

All is now one bright repose ! 

Come, come, come ! 

Weary heart that long hast bled, 
Languid spirit, drooping head. 
Restless memory, vain regret, 
Pining love whose light is set, 
Come away! — 't is hushed 't is well ! 
Where by shadowy founts we dwell. 
All the fever-thirst is stilled, 
All the air with peace is filled, — 
Come, come, come ! 

And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay, 
She passed, as twrilight melts to night, away ! 



THE MAGIC GLASS. 

How lived, how loveil, how died they 1 

Byron. 

" The Dead I the glorious Dead ! — And shall they 

rise? 
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright 

eyes'] 

Thou ask'st a fearful spell I 



Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, 
What kingly vision shall obey my call? 

The deep grave knows it well ! 

"Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors 1 shau 

they pass 
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass 

With triumph's long array! 
Speak ! and those dwellers of the marble urn 
Robed for the feast of victory shall return 

As on their proudest day. 

" Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of songi- - 
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng 

Shall waft a solemn gleam! 
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, 
Under the foliage of green laurel boughs, 

But silent as a dream." 

"Not these, O mighty master! — Though their 

lays 
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, 

Hallowed for evermore ! 
And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep 
And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep 

In joy, from shore to shore ! 

" But, if the narrow house may so be moved, 
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved, 

Back from their coucli of rest! 
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled 
With peace, if human love hath ever, stilled 

The yearning human breast." 

" Away, fond youth ! — An idle quest is thine • 
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; 

I know not of their place ! 
'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, 
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and 
low, 

Have passed, and left no trace. 

"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, 
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills. 

Their covering turf may bloom; 
But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers. 
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers 

Or poet hailed their tomb." 

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell! 
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may 
tell 

That which I pine to know! 
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, 
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep. 
Records of joy and wo."* 



• Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1B3S. 



"l ' ■ — ■ — — —— - 

jy^ MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 


CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 


THE RUIN. 


Les femmes doivent penserqu'il est dans cette carriere bien 


Oh ! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life 


peu de Borte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie, d'une 


Making a truth and beauty of its own. ^i^ijfc 

Worasworib 


emme airnee at d'une mere heureuse. 


Madame de Stael. 


Birth has gladdened it : Death has sanctified h. 





Guesses at 7'rulh. 


Daughter of th' Italian heaven ! 




Thou, to whom its fires are given, 


No dower of storied song is thine, 


Joyously thy car hath rolled 


desolate abode ! 


Where the conquerors passed of old ; 


Forth from thy gates no glittering line 


And the festal sun that shone, 


Of lance and spear hath flowed. 


O'er three* hundred triumphs gone, 


Banners of knighthood have not flung 


Makes thy day of glory bright. 


Proud drapery o'er thy walls, 


With a shower of golden light. 


Nor bugle notes to battle rung 




Through thy resounding halls. 


Now thou tread'st th' ascending road, 




Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 


Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here 


While, from tombs of heroes borne, 


By courtly hands been dressed, 


From the dust of empire shorn, 


For Princes, from the chase of deer, 


Flowers upon thy graceful head, 


Under green leaves to rest: 


Chaplets of all hues are shed. 


Only some rose, yet lingering bright 


In a soft and rosy rain. 


Beside thy casements lone. 


Touched with many a gemlike stain. 


Tells where the spirit of delight 




Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 


Thou hast gained the summit now 


Music hails thee from below ; — 


Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, 


Music, whose rich notes might stir 


And sovereign beauty's lot, 


Ashes of the sepulchre; 


House of quenched light and silent beard ! 


Shaking with victorious notes 


For me thou needest not. 


All the bright air as it floats. 


It is enough to know that here, 


Well may woman's heart beat high 


Where thoughtfully I stand, 


Unto that proud harmony 1 


Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, 


Now afar it rolls — it dies — 


Have hnked one kindred band. 


And thy voice is heard to rise 


Thou bindest me with mighty spells! 


With a low and lovely tone 


— A solemnizing breath, 


In its thrilling power alone ; 


A presence all around thee dwells, 


And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 


Of human life and death. 


Touched as by a breeze's wing. 


I need but pluck yon garden flower 


Murmurs tremblingly at first, 


From where the wild weeds rise. 


Ere the tide of rapture burst. 


To wake, with strange and sudden powe?, 


All the spirit of thy sky 


A thousand sympathies. 


Now hath lit thy large dark eye, 


Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth 


And thy cheek a flush hath caught 


Deserted now by all! 


From the joy of kindled thought; 


Voices at eve here met in mirth 


And the burning words of song 


Which eve may ne'er recall. 


From thy lips flow fast and strong, 


Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 


With a rushing stream's delight 


And childhood's laughing glee. 


In the freedom of its might. 


And song and prayer, have all been known, 


Radiant daugliterof the sun! 


Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 


Now thy hving wreath is won. 


Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured 

Upon the infant head, 
As if in every fervent word 


Crowned of R.ome ! — Oh ! art thou not 


Happy in that glorious lot 1 — 


Happier, happier far than thou. 


The living soul were shed ; 


With the laurel on thy brow, 


Thou hast seen' partings, such as bear 
The bloom from life away — 


She that makes the humblest hearth 


Lovely but to one on earth ! 


Alas! for love in changeful air, 
Where nought beloved can stay' 


'The trebly hundred tx'mmphs.—Byi on 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



323 



Here, liy the restless bed of pain, 

Tlie vii;;il hath been kept, 
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, 

Burst forth on eyes that wept : 
Here hath been felt tl>e hush, the gloom. 

The breathless influence, shed 
Through the dim dwelling, from the room 

Wherein reposed the dead. 

The seat left void, the missing face, 

Have here been marked and mourned, 
And time hath filled the vacant place. 

And gladness hath retm-ned ; 
Till from tne narrowing household chain 

The links dropped one by one ! 
And homewards hither, o'er the main, 

Came the spring-birds alone. 

Is there not cause, then — cause for thought, 

Fixed eye and lingering tread, 
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught. 

Even lowliest hearts have bled 1 
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst 

For draughts of purer day, 
Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst 

The clouds that wrapt its wayl 

Holy to human nature seems 

The long-forsaken spot ; 
To deep affections, tender dreams, 

Hopes of a brighter lot ! 
Therefore in silent reverence here. 

Hearth of the dead! I stand. 
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, 

Have linked one household band. 



THE MINSTER. 

A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined 
Our hopes of immortality. — Byron. 

Speak low! — the place is holy to the breath 
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer; 

Tread lightly! — for the sanctity of death 
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air: 

Stern, yet serene! — a reconciling spell. 

Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. 

Leave me to linger silently awhile ! 

— Not for the light that pours its fervid streams 
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, 

Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. 
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb 
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom: 

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing. 
Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high; 

Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing 
Through incense-mists their sainted pageant- 
ry:— 



Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power 
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. 

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 

Thoughts of the human hearts, that here havf 
poured 
Their anguish forth, are with me and around ; — 

I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, 

Known to these altars of a thousand years 

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! 

That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head; 
And thou still battling with the tempest's force — 

Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has 
bled— 
Speak, wounded Love ! if penance here, or prayer. 
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair 7 

No voice, no breath! — of conflicts past, no trace! 
— Does not this hush give answer to my quest? 

Si^rely the dread religion of the place 

By every grief hath made its might confest I 
•Oh! that within my heart I could but keep 

Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and 
deep! 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 



O night, 
And storm, and darkness ! ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength! — Byron 



I COME to thee, O Earth! 
With all my gifts I — for every flower sweet dew, 
In bell and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Par amidst folding hills, or forest leaves. 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, 
Give me but the moss, the reed, the lily back, 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace; — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's voung 
glee, 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
I The weary babe; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 
I The shadowmg iius to play. 



~Jm 



324 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



I come with mightier things! 
Who calls me silent 1 — I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low, mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades. 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, 

Till the bright day is done ; 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn. 
From crushed affections, which, though long o'er- 
borne. 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb; 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love ® 

They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely 1 — Hosts around me tread, 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, — the dead, — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes — 
These are my lightnings ! — filled with anguish vain, 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain. 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with soft control. 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one ! the armed — the strong. 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms ! — the 

tempest-birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse: — Be holy, earth ! 
I am the solemn night !* 



THE STORM PAINTER+ IN HIS DUN- 
GEON. 

Wliere of ye, O tempests, is the goal % 
Are ye like those that shake the human breast t 
Or \o ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest 1 
Cldlde Harold. 

Midnight, and silence deep ! 
The air is filled with sleep, 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath ; 

• Origmally published in the Winter's Wreath, for 1831). 
t Pietro Mullet, called 11 Tempesta. from his surprising pic- 



The fixed and solemn stars 
Gleam through my dungeon bars — 
Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death. 

Ye watch-fires of the skies ! 

The stillness of your eyes 
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul : 

I feel this weight of rest 

An earth-load on my breast — 
Wake, rushing winds,awake ! and, dark clouds, roll ! 

I am your own, your child, 

O ye, the fierce and wild 
And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise 1 

Hear the bold spirit's voice. 

That knows not to rejoice 
But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 

By sounding ocean-waves, 

And dim Calabrian caves. 
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate ; 

And with the rocking pines 

Of the olden Apennines, 
In your dark path stood fearless and elate : 

Your lightnings were as rods, 

That smote the deep abodes 
Of thoughtand vision — and the stream gushed free j 

Come, that my soul again 

May swell to burst its chain — 
Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 

Within me dwells a flame. 

An eagle caged and tame. 
Till called forth by the harping of the blast ; 

Then is its triumph's hour, 

It springs to sudden power. 
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast. 

Then, then, the canvass o'er, 

With hurried hand I pour 
The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul ! 

Kindhng to fiery life 

Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife ; — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds, roll 

Wake, rise ! the reed may bend. 

The shivering leaf descend. 
The forest branch give way before your might 

But I, your strong compeer, 

Call, summon, wait you here, — 
Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and niglit ! 



turee of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, " inspire a 
real horror, presenting to our eyes deatlidevotod ships over- 
talten by tempests and darkness; fired by lightning; now 
rising on the mountain wave, and again submerged in the 
abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment of five years in 
Genoa, the pictures whicli he painted in iiis dungeon were 
marked by additional power and gloom. — See Laiizi's Hit 
tort/ of Painting, translated by lioscoe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



325 



DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. 

• Ay, "Warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume 

On a proud and fearless brow ! 
[ am the lord of the lonely tomb, 

And a mightier one than thou ! 

" Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief, 

Bid her a long farewell ! 
Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief — 

Thou comest with me to dwell ! 

" Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, 

Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ; 
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep. 

Narrow, and cold, and chill !" 

" Was the voice I heard, thy voice, O Death 1 

And is thy day so near '? 
Then on the field shall my life's last breath 

Mingle with victory's cheer! 

•' Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, 

Above me as I die ! 
And the palm tree wave o'er my noble grave, 

Under the Syrian sky. 

" High hearts shall burn in the royal hall. 
When the minstrel names that spot ; 

And the eyes I love shall weep my fall, — 
Death, Death ! I fear thee not !" 

" Warrior ! thou bearest a haughty heart ; 

But I can bend its pride ! 
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part 

In the hour of victory's tide 1 

" It may be far from thy steel-clad bands, 

That I shall make thee mine ; 
It may be lone on the desert sands, 

Where men for fountains pine ! 

" It may be deep amidst heavy chains, 

In some strong Paynim hold ; — 
I have slow dull steps and lingering pains, 

Wherewith to tame the bold !" 

" Death, Death ! I go to a doom unblest, 

If this indeed must be ; 
But the cross is bound upon my breast. 

And I may not shrink for thee ! 

■' Sound, clarion, sound! — for my vows are given 

To the cause of the holy shrine ; 
. bow my soul to the will of Heaven, 

O Death ! — and not to thine !" 



THE TWO VOICES. 

Two solemn * oices, in a funeral strain, 
Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 

Meet in the sky : 

30 



" Thou art gone hence !" one sang; " Our light ia 

flown. 
Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own, 
Ever to die. 

" Thou art gone hence!— our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song. 

When spring-flowers rise ! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 

Of thy glad eyes." 

" Thou art gone home, gone home .'" then, high 

and clear, 
Warbled that other Voice : " Thou hast no tear 

Again to shed. 
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain. 
Never, weighed down by Memory's clouds, again 

To bow thy head. 

"Thou art gone home! oh! early crowned and 

blest ! 
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 

With aught below 1 
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay 
All the bright rose-leaves drop frcnn life away — 

Thrice blest to go !" 

Yet sighed again that breeze-like Voice of grief — 
" Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief. 

So loved should be ! 
Thou tak'st our summer hence ! — the flower, the 

tone. 
The music of our being, all in one, 

Depart with thee ! 

" Fair forin, young spirit, morning vision fled 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead? 

The dark unknown'? 
Yes I to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, 
Never again to light up hearth or hall, 

Thy smile is gone 1" 

"Home, home!" once more th' exulting Voir,*) 

arose : 
" Thou art gone home ! from that divine repose 

Never to roam ! 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain. 
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 

Thou art gone home . 

" By the bs^ht waters now thy lot is cast,— 
Joy for thee, happy friend I thy bark hath past 

The rough sea's foam ! 
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled. 
Home ! home ! — thy peace is won, thy heart »v 
filled. 

— Thou an. gone homn"'" 



326 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE PARTING SHIP. 



A glittering ship that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain. 

Wordsworth, 

GrO, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, 

Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell ; 

Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, — 
Fare thee well, bark, farewell ! 

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft, 

The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song ; 

Who now of storms hath dream or memory left '? 
And yet the deep is strong ! 

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles 
Of summer tremble on the water's breast ! 

Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, 
In lone, wild beauty drest. 

To thee a welcome, breathing o'er the tide, 
The genii groves of Araby shall pour; 

Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side, 
On the old Intlian shore. 

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie 

O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furled, 

And its leaves whisper, as the wind sweeps by, 
Tales of the elder world. 

Oft shall the burning stars of Southern skies. 
On the mid-ocean see thee chained in sleep, 

A lonely home for human thoughts and ties, 
Between the heavens and deep. 

Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renowned, 
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes 
way; 

Strangecreaturesof the abyss that none may sound. 
In thy broad wake shall play. 

t'rom hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear, 
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark ; 

Blessings go with thee on thy lone career ! 
Hail, and farewell, thou bark ! 

A long farewell ! — Thou wilt not bring us back, 
All whom thoubearest far from home and hearth. 

Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track 
Their own sweet native earth ! 

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's shade. 
Where through the foliage Indian suns look 
bright ; 

^J)^le. in the snows of wintry regions laid, 
Bv ine cold northern light. 



And some, far down below the sounding wave, — 
Still shall tliey lie, though tempests o'er them 
sweep ; 

Never may flower be strewn above their grave 
Never may sister weep ! 

And thou — the billow's queen — even thy proud 
form 

On our glad sight no more perchance may swell; 
Yet God alike is in the calm and storm — 

Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 



THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST. 

Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree, 

One, where a thousand stood ! 
Well might proud tales be told by thee, 

Last of the solemn wood [ 

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs, 

With leaves yet darkly green 1 
Stillness is round, and noontide glows — 

Tell us what thou hast seen. . 

" I have seen the forest shadows lie 

Where men now reap the corn ; 
I have seen the kingly chase rush by 

Through the deep glades at morn. 

" With the glance of many a gallant spear, 

And the wave of many a plume, 
And the bounding of a hundred deer, 

It hath lit the woodland's gloom. 

" I have seen the knight and his train ride pastj 

With his banner borne on high ; 
O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast 

From his gleaming panoply. 

" The Pilgrim at my feet hath laid 
His palm branch 'midst the flowers, 

And told his beads, and meekly prayed, 
Kneeling, at vesper-hours. 

" And the merry-men of wild and glen. 

In the green array they wore. 
Have feasted here with the red wine's cheer, 

And the hunter's song of yore. 

"And the minstrel, resting in my shade, 

Hath made the forest ring 
With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, 

Once loved by chief and king. 

"But now the noble forms are gone, 

That walked the earth of old; 
The soft wind hath a mournful tone, 

The sunny light looks cold. 



" There is no glory left us now, 
Like the glory with the dead : — 

I would that where they slumber low 
My latest leaves were shed !" 

Oh ! thou dark Tree, thou loneiy Tree 

That mournest for the past ! 
A peasant's home in thy shades I see, 

Embowered from every blast. 

A lovely and a mirthful sound 

Of laughter meets mine ear ; 
For the poor man's children sport around 

On the turf, with nought to fear. 

And roses lend that cabin's wall 

A happy summer-glow ; 
And the open door stands free to all 

For it recks not of a foe. 

And the village bells are on the breeze, 
That stirs thy leaf, dark Tree ! 

How can I mourn, 'midst things like these. 
For the stormy past, with thee 1 



THE STREAMS, 



The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 

Tliathad theh' haunts in dale or piny mountain, 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. 

Or chasms and watery depths ; all those have vanished ! 

They live no longer in the faith of heaven, 

But stiU the heart doth need a language ! 

Coleridge's Wallenstein. 



Ye have been holy, O founts and floods ! 
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods, 
Ve that are born of the valleys deep, 
With the water-flowers on your breast asleep, 
And ye that gush from the sounding caves — 
Hallowed have been your waves. 

Hallowed by man, and his dreams of old, 
Unto beings not of this mortal mould 
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers, 
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours. 
And sought with its fancied sound to still 
The heart earth could not fill. 

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone. 
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams ! were thrown 
Thousand of gifts, to the sunny sea 
Have ye swept along in your wanderings free, 
And thrilled to the murmur of many a vow — 
Where all is silent now ! 

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been 
So linked in love to your margins green; 
That still, though ruined, your early shrines 
in beauty gleam through the southern vines 



And the ivyed chapels of colder skies. 
On your wild banks arise. 

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth. 
Are those, bright streams! where your springs 

have birth; 
Whether their caverned murmur fills. 
With a tone of plaint the hollow hills. 
Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow 
Is heard 'midst the hamlets low. 

Or whether ye gladden the desert-sands, 
With a joyous music to Pilgrim bands. 
And a flash from under some ancient rock. 
Where a shepherd-king might have watched his 

flock. 
Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads, 
And a green Acacia spreads. 

Or whether, in bright old lands renowned, 
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound, 
And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine. 
Sweeps with the breeze o'er your gleaming line, 
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves 
Beside heroic graves. 

Voices and lights of the lonely place ! 
By the freshest fern your path we trace ; 
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss, 
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss. 
By the rainbow-glancing of insect-wings, 
In a thousand mazy rings. 

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers 
Are all your own through the summer-hours , 
There the proud stag his fair image knows, 
Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs. 
And the Halcyon's breast, like the skies arrayed, 
Gleams through the willow-shade. 

But the wild sweet tales, that with elves and fays 
Peopled your banks in olden days. 
And the memory left by departed love. 
To your antique founts in glen and grove. 
And the glory born of the poet's dreams — 

These are your charms, bright streams 

Now is the time of your flowery rites. 
Gone by with its dances and young delights : 
From your marble urns ye have burst away, 
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day; 
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown, 
— And the woods again are one. 

Yet holy still be your living springs 
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things 
Holy, to converse with nature's lore. 
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more. 
And to silent thoughts of the love divine, 
Making the heart a shrine ! 



328 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE VOICE OP THE WIND. 

There is nothing in the wide world bo like the voice of a spi. 
rlt. — Gray's Letters. 

Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind ! full many 
a voice is thine, 

From every scene thy wing o'erswreeps thou bear- 
est a sound and sign ; 

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mas- 
tery all thine own, 

And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives 
the answering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shivered helmets lie. 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a 

clarion in the sky; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy 

drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 
wastes brought back 

Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of 
thy track; 

The chime of low soft southern waves on some 
green palmy shore. 

The hollow roll of distant surge, the gathered bil- 
lows roar. 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 

mighty rushing Wind ! 
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell 

combined ; 
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden 

things and free. 
Of the dim old sounding wilderness, have lent 

their soul to thee. 

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the con- 
queror passing by, 

Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of 
haughty revelry; 

The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in 
the hall. 

The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and 
fall. 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, 

from ancient minsters vast, 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy 

lonely wing hath passed ; 
Thou nast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the 

stately dirge's tone, 
ftV) a chief, with svvora, and shield, and helm, to 

his place of slumber gone. 



Thou art come from long- forsaken homes, wherein 

our young days flew. 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, tlie 

loved, the kind, the true; 
Thou callcst back those melodies, though now all 

changed and fled, — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music 

from the dead! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind"? these 

many notes in thee? 
Par in our own unfathomed souls their fount must 

surely be ; 
Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there Thougnt 

watches. Memory lies, 
From whose deep urn the tones are poured, 

through all Earth's harmonies. 



THE VIGIL OP ARMS.* 

A SOUNDING step was heard by night 

In a church where the mighty slept. 
As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 

Midst the tombs his vigil kept. 
He walked in dreams of power and fame, 

He lifted a proud, bright eye. 
For the hours were few that withheld his rar"e 

From the roll of chivalry. 

Down the moon-lit aisles he paced alone, 

With a free and stately tread ; 
And the floor gave back a muffled tone 

From the couches of the dead : 
The silent many that round him lay, 

The crowned and helmed that were, 
The haughty chiefs of the war-array — 

Each in his sepulchre! 

But no dim warning of time or fate 

That youth's flushed hopes could chill, 
He moved through the trophies of buried state 

With each proud pulse throbbing still. 
He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, 

A swell of the trumpet's breath; 
He looked to the banners on high that hung, 

And not to the dust beneath. 

And a royal masque of splendour seemed 

Before him to unfold ; 
Through the solemn arches on it streamed, 

With many a gleam of gold : 



* Tlie candidate for knighthood was under the necessity 
of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in a 
church, and completely armed. This was called "the VigiJ 
of Arms." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



329 



Tliore were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, 

Glittering athwart tiic gloom, 
And he followed, till his bold step came 

I'o his warrior-fother's tomb. 

But there the still and shadowy might 

Of the monumental stone, 
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light, 

That over its quiet shone. 
And the image of that sire, who died 

In his noonday of renown — 
These had a power unto which the pride 

Of iiery life bowed down. 

And a spirit from his early years 

Came back o'er his thoughts to move, 
rill his eye was filled with memory's tears, 

And his heart with childhood's love! 
And he looked, with a change in his softening 
glance, 

To the armour o'er the grave, — 
For there they hung, the shield and lance, 

And the gauntlet of the brave. 

And the sword of many a field was there, 

With its cross for the hour of need. 
When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in 
prayer, 

And the spear is a broken reed ! 
— Hush ! did a breeze through the armour sigh 1 

Did the folds of the banner shake! 
Not so! — from the tomb's dark mystery 

There seemed a voice to break! 

He had heard that voice bid clarions blow. 

He had caught its last blessing's breath, — 
'Twas the same — but its awful sweetness now 

Had an under tone of death ! 
And it said, — " The sword hath conquered kings, 

And the spear through realms hath passed; 
But the cross, alone, of all these things, 

Misht aid me at the last." 



THE HEART OP BRUCE IN MELROSE 
ABBEY. 

Heart ! that didst press forward still,* 
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill, 
Where the knightly swords were crossing, 
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing. 
Leader of the chargmg spear. 
Fiery heart ! — and liest thou here ? 
May this narrow spot inurn 
Aught that so coul.l beat and burn 1 



*'-Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and 
Douglas will follow thee or die!" With these words 
Douglas threw from him tho heart of IJruce, into mid- 
battle against the Moors of Spain. 

X 30* 



Heart I that lovedst the clarion's blast, 
Silent is thy place at last ; 
Silent, — save when early bird 
Sings where once the mass was heard; 
Silent — save when breeze's moan 
Comes through flowers or fretted stone ; 
And the wild-rose waves around thee. 
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,- 
— Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep, 
In this nameless valley deep 1 

No ! brave heart ! — though cold and lone 
Kingly power is yet thine own ! 
Feel I not thy spirit brood 
O'er the whispering solitude 1 
Lo ! at one high thought of thee, 
Fast they rise, the bold, the free, 
Sweeping past thy lowly bed, 
With a mute, yet stately tread, 
Shedding their pale armour's light 
Forth upon the breathless night, 
Bending every warlike plume 
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. 

Is the noble Douglas nigh. 
Armed to follow thee, or die 1 
Now, true heart, as thou wert wont, 
Pass thou to the peril's front ! 
Where the banner-spear is gleaming, 
And the battle's red wine streaming, 
Till the Paynim quail before thee, 
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee ; — 
— Dreams ! the falling of a leaf 
Wins me from their splendours brief; 
Dreams, yet bright ones ! scorn them not, 
Thou that seek'st the holy spot; 
Nor, amidst its lone domain. 
Call the faith in relics vain ! 



NATURE'S FAREWELL. 

The beautiful is vanished, and returns not. 

Coleridge's Wallenstein 

A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home, 
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam, 
And the green leaves whispered, as he passed, 
" Wherefore, thou dreamer, away so fast? 

" Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here, 
Long wouldst thou linger in douot and fear; 
Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours, 
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's ■rtikl 
flowers. 

" Under the arch by our mmgling made, 
Thou and thy brother have gaily played ; 
Ye may meet ngain where ye roved of yore, 
But as ye have met there — oh ' never morel" 



330 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



On rode th-^ vouth — and the boughs among, 
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung : 
" Wherefore so fast unto life away 1 
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay ! 

" Thou mayst come to the summer woods again, 
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain ; 
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell — 
A change must pass o'er thee — farewell, farewell !" 

On rode the youth : — and the founts and streams 
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
— " We have been thy playmates through many a 

day, 
Wherefore thus leave us 1 — oh 1 yet delay ! 

" Listen but once to the sound of our mirth ! 
For thee 't is a melody passing from earth. 
Never again wilt ihou find in its flow, 
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 

" Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee, 
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred. 
And the singing of waters be vainly heard. 

*' Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part — 
What should it do for a burning heart 1 
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill. 
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. 

" Farewell ! — when thou comest again to thine own, 
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone ; 
Mournfully true is the tale we tell — 
Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell, farewell !'' 

And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed. 
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade ; 
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke, 
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke ! 



THE BEINGS OF THE MIND. 



The beings of the muid are not of clay; 

Essentially immortal, they create 

And multiply in us a brighter ray, 

And more beloved existence ; that which Fate 

Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 

Of mortal bondage. 

Bi/ron. 

iyOUZ to me with }'our triumphs and your woes, 
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought 1 

I Bit tdone with flowers and vernal boughs, 

In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought ; 
Midst the glad music of the spring alone, 

And sorrowful for visions that are gone 1 

Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard. 
Yo. by those masters of the soul endowed 



With life, and love, and many a burning word, 
That bursts from grief, like lightning Irora a 
cloud, 
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, 
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. 

Come to me ! visit my dim haunt ! — the sound 
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath ; 

The stock -dove's note above ; and all around, 
The poesy that with the violet's breath 

Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, 

Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams. 

Friends, friends I — for such to my lone heart ye 
are — 

Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes 
The glory melts not as a waning star. 

And the sweet kindness never, never dies ; 
Bright children of the bard ! o'er this green dell 
Pass once again, and light it with your spell I 

Imogen I fair Fidele ! meekly blending 

In patient grief, " a smiling with a sigh;"* 

And thou, Cordeha! faithful daughter, tending 
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky ; 

Thou of the soft low voice! — thou art not gone ! 

Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone. 

And come to me I — sing me thy willow-strain, 
Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise 

In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, 
Undimmed, unquenchable affection hes; 

Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, 

As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne. 

And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here. 

That well might win thy footsteps to the spot- 
Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier. 

And pansies for sad thoughts,! — but needed not 1 
Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light 
In that wild eye still tremulously bright. 

And Juliet, vision of the south ! enshrining 
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong 

The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining. 
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song ! 

Thou, making death deep joy! — but couldst thou 
die? 

No ! — thy young love hath immortality ! 

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn, 
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone; 

But ye, the children of the soul, were born 
Deathless, and for undying love alone ; 

And, oh ! ye beautiful ! 't is well, how well. 

In the soul's world, with you, where change is not, 
to dwell ! 



' Nobly he yokes 
A smiling with a sigh. Cynibeline. 

t Here 's pansies for you — tliat's for thoughts. — Hamlef 



THE LYRE'S LAMENT. 



A large lyre hung in an opening of the rocic, and gave forth 
Js ineianclioly music to tlie wind — but no human being was 
.o no seen. — SatatUiel. 



A DEEP-TONED Lyre hung murmuring 

To the wild wind of the sea : 
" O melancholy wind," it sighed, 

" What would thy breath with mel 

" Thou canst not wake the spirit 

That in me slumbering lies, 
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire 

Of buried melodies. 

" Wind of the dark sea-waters! 

Thou dost but sweep my strings 
Into wild gusts of mournfulness, 

With the rushing of thy wings. 

" But the spell — the gift — the lightning — 

Within my frame concealed, 
Must I moulder on the rock away, 

With their triumphs unrevealed'? 

" 1 have power, high power, for freedom 

To wake the burning soul ! 
I have sounds that through the ancient hills 

Like a torrent's voice might roll. 

" 1 have pealing notes of victory 

That might welcome kings from war ; 

I have rich deep tones to send the wail 
For a hero's death afar. 

•' I have chords to lift the psan 

From the temple to the sky. 
Full as the forest-unisons 

When sweeping winds are higli. 

" And Love — for Love's lone sorrow 

I have accents that might swell 
Through the summer air with the rose's breath. 

Or the violet's faint farewell ; 

" Soft — spiritual — mournful — 

Sighs in each note enshrined — 
But who shall call that sweetness forth 1 

Thou canst not, ocean-wind 1 

" 1 pass without my glory, 

Forgotten I decay — 
Where is the touch to give me life 1 
Wild fitful wind, away !" 

So sighed the broken music 

That in gladness had no part 
How hke art thou, neglected LjTe, 

To many a human heart '. 



TASSO'S CORONATION* 

A crown of victory 1 a triumphal song ' 
Oh ! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart 
The weary one may cahrtly sink to rest : 
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, 
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony 1 

A trumpet's note is in the sky, in the jilonous 

Roman sky, 
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the 

voice of victory ; 
There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial 

streets along. 
For again a conqueror must be crowned, — a kingly 

child of song : 

Yet his chariot lingers, 
Yet around his home 
Broods a shadow silently, 
'Midst the joy of Rome. 

A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving 

wide and far. 
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his 

rolling car; 
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their 

wealtii of flowers, 
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in 

gemlike showers. 

Peace! within his chamber 

Low the mighty lies; 

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, 

And a wandering in his eyes. 

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose 
rusMng strain 

In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong 
wind o'er the main! 

Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever 
there to dwell, 

As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's ho- 
liest cell. 

Yes! for him, the victor, 
Sing, — but low, sing low ! 
A soft sad miserere chant 
For a soul about to go ! 

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, 
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a 

flood of golden day; 
Streaming through every haughty arch of the Csb 

sars' past renown — 
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror 

for his crown ! 

' Ta.<!so died at Rome on the tiav oefore that aofoiued foi 
his Coronation in the HapitcC 



332 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Shut the proud bright sunshine 
From the fading sight! 
There needs no ray by the bed of death, 
Save the holy taper's Ught. 

The wreath is twined, — the way is strewn — the 

lordly train are met — 
The streets are hung with coronals — why stays 

the minstrel yet 1 
Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a royal 

chief — 
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love 

and grief! ' 

Silence! forth we bring him, 

In his last array ; 

From love and grief the freed, the flown — 

Way for the bier — make way ! 



myrtle 



THE BETTER LAND. 

" I hear thee speak of the better land, 
Thou callest its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! oh where is that radiant shore 1 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more 1 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows. 
And the fire-flies glance through the 
boughs'?" 

— "Not there, not there, my child'" 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise. 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies'? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things'?" 

— " Not there, not there, my child!" 

" Is it far away, in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold 1 — 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine. 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine. 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand'?— 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land"?'' 

— " Not there, not there, my child!" 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Eai natn not heard its deep songs of joy; 
Dreams can not picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter tliere ; 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom. 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
— It is there, it is there, my child !" 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 

Eagle! this is not thy sphere! 
Warrior bird! what seekcst thou herel 
Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
Uoth thy royal pinion sink 7 



Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Layest thou thus thy drooping headl 
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn, 
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn! 

Eagle! wilt thou not arise'? 
Look upon thine own bright skies ! 
Lift thy glance ! the fiery sun 
There his pride of place hath won ! 
And the mountain lark is there. 
And sweet sound hath filled the air ; 
Hast thou left that realm on high'? 
Oh ! it can be but to die ! 

Eagle, Eagle! thou hast bowed 
From thine empire o'er the cloud! 
Thou that hadst ethereal birth, 
Thou hast stooped too near the earth, 
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
And the toils of death have bound thee! 
— Wherefore didst thou leave thy place. 
Creature of a kingly race '? 

Wert thou weary of thy throne 1 
Was the sky's dominion lone'? 
Chill and lone it well might be. 
Yet that mighty wing was free ! 
Now the chain is o'er it cast. 
From thy heart the blood flows fast, 
— Wo for gifted souls and high ! 
Is not such their destiny? 



SADNEoS AND MIRTH 



Nay these, wllcf fits of uncurbed laugb»er 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, 
As it has lowered of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seem, and strange. 

Oh ! nothing strange ! 
Didst thou ne'er see tlie swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, 
In the sunned glimpses of a^troubled day. 
Shiver in silvery brightness? 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash 
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path, 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake? 

O, gentle friend! 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, 
And may be so to-morrow!— ./ocsw no Baillie, 

Ye met at the stately feasts of old. 

Where the bright wine foamed over sculptured 

gold. 
Sadness and Mirth! — ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, 
Ye mixed in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'er the banquets of yore a gloom, 
A thought and a shadow of the tomb: 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



333 



k gave to the flute-notes an under-lone, 

To the rose a colouring not its own, 

To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power — 

Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower! 

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that e'en then, in his hour of pride, 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, 
Which the music of victory migiit never fill ! 

Thou wert there, oh ! Mirth ! swelling on the shout, 
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out ; 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine, 
All the rich voices in air were thine. 
The incense, the sunshine — but, Sadness! thy 

part. 
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart ! 

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear ; 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier I 

As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed, 

Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 

Sadness and Mirth ! so ye come and fly! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast. 
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest ! 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring, 
When the woods with the wakening of music ring. 
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, 
[jike shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass. 

When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth 1 
Bright stream and dark one! — oh ! never on earth ; 
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near. 
While Death and Love walk the same dim sphere, 
While flowers unfold where tlie storm may sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep I 

But there smiles a land, oh I ye troubled pair! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air. 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
Over the seas and the graves it lies; 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done. 
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun ! 



niE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG. 



Willst dii nach den Nachiigallen fragen, 

Die mil seelenvollen melodie 
Dichentziicktcn in desI/cnzesTagenT 

— Nur BO lanff sie liebten, waren sie. 

Schiller. 

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 

And die away, my heart! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone, 

And 1, too, will depart. 



The skies have lost their splendour 
The waters changed their tone, 

And wherefore, in the faded world. 
Should music linger on 1 

Where is the golden sunshine, 

And where the flower-cup's glow 1 

And where the joy of tlie dancing leaves 
And the fountain's laughing flow ? 

A voice, in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air. 

Comes asking for the beautiful. 

And moaning, "Where, oh! where?' 

Tell of the brightness parted, 
Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 

Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth ! 
— Are ye, too, passed away 1 

Mournfully, sing mournfully! 

The royal rose is gone. 
Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt 

In one deep farewell tone ! 

Not so! — swell forth triumphantly. 
The full, rich, fervent strain I 

Hence with young love and life I go, 
In the summer's joyous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odour. 

With every precious thing. 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger, 

When the days of hope are past, 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 

To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go! 
For me, percliance, in other lands, 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure, 

And the greensward's violet breath, 

And the dance of light leaves in the wind, 
May there know nought of death. 

No more, no more sing mournfully, 
Swell high, then break, my he;irt 

With love, the spirit of the woods. 
With summer I depart! 



THE DIVER. 

Tliey learn in suflering wliat they teach ir> song 

I'ltdlet 

Tnou hast been where the rocks of corai ^tow 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves;— 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves i 



534 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old, 
And wrecks where the brave have striven ; 

Tne deep is a strong and a fearful hold, 
But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weary life is thine ; 

A wasting task and lone, 
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine, 

To all besides unknown! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thee free; 
Thou 'rt passing fast from thy toils away. 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, 

Well are the death-signs read — 
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek, 

Ere hope and power be fled ! 

And bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee 7 

None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
"A life hath been like a rain-drop shed. 

For that pale quivering ray." 

Wo for the wealth tlius dearly tought ! 

— And are not those like thee, 
Who win for earth the gems of thought 1 

O wrestler with the sea! 

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go. 

Where the passion-fountains burn. 
Gathering the jewels far below 

From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava-veins the fire. 

That o'er bright words is poured; 
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 

A spirit in each chord. 

But, ohl the price of bitter tears. 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last, o'er desert years, 

A darkly-glorious dower ! 

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread. 

So radiant thoughts are strewed ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts are shed, 

May faint in solitude! 

And who will think, when the strain is sung, 

Till a thousand hearts are stirred, 
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung. 

Have gushed with every word 1 

None, none! — his treasures live like thine. 
He strives and dies like thee; 
Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 
O wrestler with the sea ! 



THE REaUIEM OF GENIUS. 



Les poetes dont I'imagination tient d la puissance d'aimei 
et de souffrir, ne sont ils pas les bannis d'une autre region 1 
Madame de Slael. De L'Allemagne. 



No tears for thee ! — though light be from us gone 
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one ! 

No tears for thee ! 
They that have loved an exile, must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourne 

O'er the dark sea. 

All the high music of thy spirit here, 
Breathed but the language of another sphere, 

Unechoed round ; 
And strange, though sweet, as 'midst our weeping 

skies 
Some half-remembered strain of paradise 

Might sadly sound. 

Hast thou been answered? thou, that from the 

night 
And from the voices of the tempest's might, 

And from the past, 
Wert seeking still some oracle's reply, 
To pour the secrets of man's destiny 

Forth on the blast! 

Hast thou been answered! — thou, that through 

the gloom, 
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, 

A cry didst send, 
So passionate and deep? to pierce, to move, 
To win back token of unburied love 

From buried fiiend ! 

And hast thou found where living waters burst 1 
Thou, that didst pine amidst us, in the thirst 

Of fever-dreams! 
Are the true fountains thine for evermore? 
Oh ! lured so long by shining mists, that wore 

The light of streams! 

Speak ! is it well with thee? — We call, as thou, 
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, 

Wert wont to call 
On the departed! Art thou blest and free? 
—Alas ! the lips earth covers, even to thee 

Were silent all ! 

Yet shall our hope rise fanned b}' quenchless faith, 
As a flame, fostered by some warm wind's breath, 

In light upsprings: 
Freed soul of song ! yes, thou hast found the 

sought ; 
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought, 

On morning's wings. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



335 



And we will dream it is thy joy we hear, 
When life's young music, ringing far and clear, 

O'erflows the sky: 
—No tears for thee! the lingering gloom is ours — 
Thou art for converse witli all glorious powers, 

Never to die ! 



TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 

Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanli ! 

RisvegUate in vano '1 cor che non puo liberarsi. 

Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spi- 
rit. 

On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill 1 
It hath no crown of victory to inlierit — 

Be still, triumphant harmony! be still! 

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly 
swelling 

Into rich floods of joy: — it is but pain 
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling. 

To sink so fast, so heavily again 1 

No sounds for earth 1 — Yes, to young chieftain 
dying 
On his own battle-field, at set of sun. 
With his freed country's banner o'er him flyina, 
Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guerdon 
won. 

No sounds for earth 1 — Yes, for the martyr leading 

Unto victorious death serenely on, 
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding. 

Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 

Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain! 
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous 

greeting, 
Thou wak'st lone thirst — be hushed, exulting 
strain ! 1 

Be hushed, or breathe of grief ! — of exile yearnings 
Under the willows of the stranger-shore ; 

Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings. 
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more. 

Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping ! 

Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to i 
[line ; j 

Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heap- 
ing, 1 
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. ! 

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing 
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky; 

Breathe of repose, the pure, the briglit, th' undy- 
ing — 
Of ioy no more — bevvildoring harmonv! 



THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.* 



Tliy path is not as m'/ne : — where thou art blest, 
My spirit would but wither : mine own tJiief 
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing. 
Than all thy happiness. 



Hath the summer's breath, on the south-wintf 

borne, 
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn 1 
Hath it lured thee, Bird ! from their sounding caves, 
To the river-shores, where the osier waves! 

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell. 
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a celll 
Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tiead, 
And the heath like a royal robe is spread 1 

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird ! 
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, 
With the dancing of waters through copse and Jellj 
And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell. 

Thou hast done well : — Oh I the seas are lone, 
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone; 
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells. 
Fitfully breathed through its anthem-swells. 

— The proud bird rose as the words were said- - 
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head, 
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain, 
Spoke him a child of the haughty main. 

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, 
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest ! 
— Oh ! who shall say, to a spirit free 
" There lies the pathvi^ay of bliss for deel" 



SECOND SIGHT. 

Ne'er erred the prophet heart that grief inspired, 
Though joy's illusions meek their votarist. — Mat'u.''m. 

A MOURNFur. gift is mine, O friends! 

A mournful gilt is mine ! 
A murmur of the soul which blends 

With the flow of song and wine. 

An eye that through the triumph's hour 

Beholds the coming wo, 
And dwells upon the faded flower 

'Midst the rich sununer's glow. 

Ye smile to view fair races bloom 
Where the father's board is spread; 

I see the stillness and the gloom 
Of a home whence all are fled. 



' Published firet in the Edinnuisn Li'arary JoiiniaL 



'i2r> MRS. HEMANS WORKS. 


I see the withered garlands he 


Her soul is far away, 


Forsaken on the earth, 


In her childhood's land, perchance, 


While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly- 


Where her young sisters play. 


Through the ringing hall of mirth. 


Where shines her mother's glance. 


1 see the blood-red future stain 


Some old sweet native sound 


On the warrior's gorgeous crest ; 


Her spirit haply weaves ; 


And the bier amidst the bridal train 


A harmony profound 


When they come with roses drest. 


Of woods with all their leaves; 


I hear the still small moan of Time, 


A murmur of the sea. 


Through the ivy branches made, 


A laughing tone of streams : — 


Where the palace, in its glory's prime, 


Long may her sojourn be 


With the sunshine stands arrayed. 


In the music-land of dreams ! 


The thunder of the seas I hear, 


Each voice of love is there. 


The shriek along the wave. 


Each gleam of beauty fled, 


When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer 


Each lost one still more fair — 


Salute the parting brave. 


Oh 1 lightly, lightly tread ! 


With every breeze a spirit sends 


= 


To me some warning sign : — 
A mournful gift is mine, O friends ! 
A mournful gift is mine ! 


THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED 
HALL. 




0, DIM, forsaken mirror ! 


Oh ! prophet heart ! thy grief, thy power, 


How many a stately throng 


To all deep souls belong ; 


Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours 


The shadow in the sunny hour. 


Of the wine-cup and the song ! 


The wail in the mirthful song. 


The song hath left no echo ; 


Their sight is all too sadly clear — 


The bright wine hath been quaffed ; 


For them a vail is riven : 


And hushed is every silvery voice 


Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 


That lightly here hath laughed. 


Their home is but in Heaven. 


Oh ! mirror, lonely mirror. 




Thou of the silent hall '. 
Thou hast been flushed with beauty's Uioom— 




THE SLEEPER. 


Is this, too, vanished all 1 




It is, with the scattered garlands 


For sleep is awful. — Byron. 


Of triumphs long ago ; 
With the melodies of buried lyres; 




With the faded rainbow's glow. 


Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

A holy thing is sleep, 
On the worn spirit shed. 

And eyes that wake to weep. 


And for all the gorgeous pageants, 
For the glance of gem and plume, 
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath. 
And vase of rich perfume. 


A holy thing from Heaven, 


Now, dim, forsaken mirror. 


A gracious dewy cloud. 


Thou givest but faintly back 


A covering mantle given 


The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, 


The weary to enshroud. 


On her solitary track. 


Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 


And thus was man's proud spirit 


Revere the pale still brow, 


Thou tellest me 't will be. 


The meekly-drooping head, 


When the forms and hues of this world fade 


The long hair's willowy flow. 


From his memory, as from thee : 


ife know not what ye do. 


And his heart's long-troubled waters 


That call the slumberer back, 


At last in stillness lie, 


F'rom the world unseen by you 


Reflecting but the images 


Unto life's dim faded track. 


Of the solemn world on high. 

1 



BYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRIS- 
TIAN. 



■'Thanks be to God for the mountains." 

Howitt's Book of llie Seasons. 



For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty, 

By the touch of the mountaia sod. 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 

Whore the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For tne strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose lights must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

Midst the silence of the sky; 
The rocks yield founts of courage 

Struck forth as by thy rod — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

O God, our fathers' God! 

For the dark, resounding heavens, 

Where thy still small voice is heard, 
For the strong pines of the forests. 

That by thy breath are stirred ; 
Fir the storms on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master. 

Seeks there his wild delights; 
But we for thy communion 

Have sought the mountain sod — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

The banner of the chieftain 

Far, far below us waves; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Can not reach our lofty caves; 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

For the shadow of thy presence 

Round our camp of rock outspread ; 
For tiie stern defiles of battle, 

Bearing record of our dead; 
For the snows, and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial sod, 
For trie strength of tlic liillswe bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God I 
31 



CHURCH MUSIC. 



'AJl Lhe train 



Sang Hallelujah, as tlie sound of seas." 

AU.lon, 

Auain! oh, send those anthem notes again ! 
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky! 
Bid the old tombs give echoes to the strain. 
The banners tremble, as with victory! 

Sing them once more ! — they waft my soul awa^ 
High where no shadow of the past is thrown; 
No earthly passion through th' exulting lay, 
Breathes mournfully one haunting under-tone. 

All is of Heaven! — yet wherefore to mine eye, 
Gush the quick tears unbidden from their source, 
E'en while the waves of that strong harmony, 
Swee» with my spirit on their sounding course? 

Wherefore must rapture its full tide reveal. 
Thus by the signs betokening sorrow's powerl 
— Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel 
Our nature's limits in its proudest hour ! 



TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA 



Ave Maria ! Slay our spirits dare 

Look up to thine, and to tliy son's above? 



Byron. 



Fair vision ! thou 'rt from sunny skies, 
Born where the rose liath richest dyes; 
To thee a southern heart hath given 
That glow of Love, that calm of Heaven, 
And round thee cast th' ideal gleam. 
The light that is but of a dream. 

Far hence, where wandering music fills 
The haunted air of Roman hills. 
Or where Venetian waves of yore 
Heard melodies they hear no more. 
Some proud old minster's gorgeous aisle 
Hath known the sweetness of thy smile. 

Or, haply, from a lone, dim shrine, 
'Mid forests of the Apennine, 
Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell 
Pass like a floating anthem-swell. 
Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way 
Shed blessings with their gentle xa.y. 

j Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, 
I Perchance thine island-chapel stood, 
I Where from the blue Sicilian sea, 
[ The sailor's hymn hath come to thee, 
And blessed thy povv'er to guide, to save, 
Madonna ! watcher of the wave! 



338 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, 
Forth from those lips of beauty flow ! 
Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, 
The conflicts and the pangs of years. 
Which, at thy secret shrine revealed, 
Have gushed from human hearts unsealed! 

Surely to thee hath woman come, 

As a tired wanderer back to home! 

Unveihng many a tinlid guest, 

And treasured sorrow of her breast, 

A buried love — a wasting care — 

Oh ! did those griefs win peace from prayer "J 

And did the poet's fervid soul 

To thee lay bare its inmost scroll 1 

Those thoughts, which poured their quenchless 

fire 
And passion o'er th' Italian lyre, 
Did they to still submission die, 
Beneath thy calm, religious eye"? 

And hath the crested helmet bowed 
Before thee, 'midst the incense-cloud 1 
Hath the crowned leader's bosom lone. 
To thee its haughty griefs made known"? 
Did thy glance break their frozen sleep. 
And win the unconquered one to weepl 

Hushed is the antliem — closed the vow — 
Thy votive garland withered now; 
Yet holy still to me thou art, 
Thou that hast soothed so many a heart! 
And still must blessed influence flow 
From the meek glory of thy brow. 

Still speak to suffering woman's love. 
Of rest for gentle hearts above; 
Of Hopu, that hath its treasure there. 
Of Home, that knows no changeful air ! 
Bright form, lit up with thoughts divine, 
Ave ! such power be ever thine ! 



WE RETURN NO MORE. 

" We return no more !" 
Hurden of the Highlatid Song of Emigration. 

' We return — we return — we return no more!" 
— So comes the song to the mountain shore, 
From those that are leaving their Higliland Home, 
For a world far over the blue sea's foam; 
" We return no more !'' — and through cave and 

dell, 
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. 

' We return — we return — we return no more!" 
—So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er. 



Murmuring up from the depth of the heart, 
When lovely things with their light depart, 
And the inborn sound bath a prophet's tone, 
And we feel that a joy is forever gone. 

" We return — we return — we return no more !" 
— Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er, 
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay 
Hath died from the summer woods away"? 
When the crimson from sun-set's robe hath passed 
Or the leaves are swept on tiie rushing blast 1 

No — it is not the rose that returns no more, 
A soft spring's breath will its bloom restore. 
And it is not the song that o'erflows the bowers 
With a stream of love through the starry hours, 
And it is not the glory of sunset's hues. 
Nor the frail flushed leaves that the wild wii 
strews. 

" We return — we return — we return no more!" 
— Doth the bird sing thus from the brighter shore 
Those wings that follow the Southern breeze. 
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas? 
Yes from the lands of the vine and palm 
They come with the sunshine when waves grov 
calm. 

" But We — We return — we return no more!" 

The heart's young dreams when their bloom is o'ei 

The love it hath poured so freely forth, 

The boundless trust in ideal worth, 

The faith in affection — deep, fond — yet vain, 

These are the lost that return not again 



SONG. 



What woke the buried sound that lay 

In Memnon's harp of yore 1 
What spirit on its viewless way 

Along the Nile's green shore 1 
— Oh I not the night, and not the storm. 

And not the lightning's fire — 
But sunlight's touch — the kind — the warm- 

This woke the mystic lyre ! 

This, this, awoke the lyre ! 

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour 

Their music forth on life, 
Like a sweet voice, prevailing o'er 

The sounds of torrent strife 1 
— Oh ! not the conflict midst the throng, 

Not e'en the triumph's hour ; — 
Love is the gifted and the strong 

To wake that music's newer' 

His breath awakes Hiac power : 



THE PARTUSG OP SUMMER. 

Thou 'rt bearing hence thy roses, 

Glad Summer, fare thee well ! 
Thou 'rt singing thy last melodies 

In every wood and dell. 

But ere the golden sunset 

Of thy latest lingering day. 
Oh! tell me, o'er this chequered earth. 

How hast thou passed away 7 

Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 

Thine hours have floated by. 
To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, 

The rangers of the sky. 

And brightly in the forests, 

To the wild deer wandering free; 

And brightly, 'mids? the garden flowers, 
Is the happy murmuring bee : 

But how to human bosoms, 

With all their hopes and fears, 
And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 

To pierce the unborn years "2 

Sweet Summer 1 to the captive 

Thou hast flown in burning dreams 

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, 
And the blue rejoicing streams; — 

To the wasted and the weary 

On the bed of sickness bound. 
In swift delirious fantasies. 

That changed with every sound ; — 

To the sailor on the billows, 

In longings, wild and vain, 
For the gushing founts and breezy hills. 

And the homes of earth again ! 

And unto me, glad Summer! 

How hast thou flown to me? 
My chainless footstep nought hath kept 

From thy haunts of song and glee. 

Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 

In memories of the dead — 
In shadows, from a troubled heart. 

O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 

In brief and sudden strivings, 

To fling a weight aside — 
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 

And all thy roses died. 

But, oh ! thou gentle Summer ! 

If I gieet tiiy flowers once more. 
Bring me again the buoyancy 

Wherewith my soul should soar ! 



Give me to hail thy sunshine, 

With song and spirit free; 
Or in a purer air than this 

May that next meeting be ! • 

THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. 

Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, 
To the world that is under the free, blue skies 
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care — 
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air. 

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells 
A light all mEide for the poet dwells ; 
A light, coloured softly by tender leaves, 
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. 

The stock-dove is there in the beechen-tree. 
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee ; 
And the voi'ce of cool waters, 'midst feathery fern, 
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. 

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirthj 
Where the streams, with the hlies they wear, have 

birth ; 
T here is peace where the alders are whispering lo w , 
Come from man's dwellings, with all their wo! 

Yes ! — we will come — we will leave behind 
The homes and the sorrows of human kind; 
It is well to rove where the river leads 
Its bright, blue vein along sunny meads: 

It is well through the rich, wild woods to go, 
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe; 
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs. 
When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings '■ 

And to watch the colours that flit and pass. 
With insect wings through the wavy grass ; 
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash-trees bark. 
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark. 

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be. 
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea; 
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow 
We will bear no memory of earthly wo. 

But if, by the forest-brook, we meet 
A line like the pathway of former feet;- 
If, 'midst the hills, in some lonely spot, 
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot ;— 

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath prayed, 
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade ;- 
Or if some nook, wliere the wild-flowers wave, 
Bear token sad of a mortal grave,— 

Doubt not but there will our steps be stayed, 
There our quick spirits awhile delayed ; 
There will thought flx our impatient eyes. 
And win back our hearts to their sympathifiir 



SIO 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



For what, though the mountains and skies be fair, 
Steeped in soft hues of the summer-air, — 
'T is the scul of man, by its hopes and dreams, 
That lights up all nature with living gleams. 

Wheic it hath suffered and nobly striven, 
Where it hath poured forth its vows to Heaven ; 
Where to repjise it hath brightly past, 
O'er this green earth there is glory cast. 

And by that soul, amidst groves and rills. 
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, 
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, 
H^e, only we, may be linked to God ! 

KINDRED HEARTS. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow ; 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soid can bring — 

A dream, to liis unknown. 

The tune tiiat speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night ; 
The wind that, with so many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The itiiidly, that from childhood grew, 

■riie faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part, 
And watched through sickness by thy bed, — 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherem bright spirits blend, 
Like sister flowers of dne sweet shade, 

With tne same breeze that bend, 
F j that full bliss of thought allied. 

Never to mortals given, — 
Oil ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto heaven. 



THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.* 

'T WAS a lovely thought to mark the hours, 

As they floated in light away. 
By the opening and the folding flowers, 

That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich hue. 

And its graceful cup and bell. 
In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew, 

Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. 

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed 

In a golden current on. 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode. 

The glorious guests were gone. 

So might the days have been brightly told — 
Those days of song and dreams — 

When shepherds gathered their flocks of old 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 

So in those isles of delight, that rest 

Far off in a breezeless main. 
Which many a bark, with a weary quest, 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight. 

Marked thus — even thus — on earth, 

By the closing of one hope's delight. 
And another's gentle birtii 1 

Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 



OUR DAILY PATHS. 



Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb 
Our clieerful faith, that all which wi; behold 
Is full of blessings. 

Wbrdsiccyrth, 



There's beauty all around our paths, if but our 

watchful eyes 
Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through 

their lowly guise ; 
We may find it where a' hedge-row showers its 

blossoms o'er our way, 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red 

light of day. 

' This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnaeus, and marked 
the hours by the opening and oioy^ig, a' regular intervals, of 
the flowers arranged in it. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



341 



We may find it where a spring shines clear, be- 
neath an aged tn-e, 

With the foxglove o'er the water's glass borne 
downwards by the bee ; 

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birch- 
en stems is thrown, 

As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses 
green and lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross 

tlie cold, blue sky, 
While soft on icy pool and stream their penciled 

shadows lie, 
When we look upon th* 

frost-work bound. 
Whence the flitting redb, 

crystals to the ground. 

Yes ! beauty dwells in all our paths — but sorrow 
too is there ; 

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still 
summer air ! 

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the 
joyous things. 

That through the leafy places glance on many- 
coloured wings ! 



Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid 

vain conflicts cease'? 
Ay, when tliey commune with themselves in holj? 

hours of peace ; 
And feel that by the lights and clouds through 

which our pathway lies. 
By the beauty and tlie grief alike, we are training 

for the skies ! 



THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. 



&st shakes a shower of 



fracery, by the fairy [ Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb ; 
His eyes, that mightnot weep, weredark with grief, 

And his arms folded in majestic gloom. 
And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound, 
"Which sanctifi'' 1 the gorgeous waste around. 

For a pale cross above its greensward rose, 
Telling the cedars and the pines that there 

Man's heart and hope had struggled with hi^woes, 
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 

Now all was hushed — and eve's lastsplendourshone 

With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone. 



With shadows from the past we fill the happy 
woodland shades. 

And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in 
tlie glades; 

And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's 
plaintive tone 

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laugh- 
ter gone. 

But are we free to do e'en thus — to wander as we 

vfiV — 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er 

the breezy hill ? 
No ! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind 

us fast, 
While from their narrow round we see the golden 

day fleet past. 

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and vio- 
let dingles, back, 

And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the 
shining river's track ; 

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, 
hope, and mirth, 

And weigh our burdened spirits down with the 
cumbering dust of earth. 

Yet should this be? — Too much, too soon, despond- 

ingly we yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the 

field! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven — which tell us, 

in their flight. 
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides 

them right. 

31* 



There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, 
And he too paused in reverence by that grave. 

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; 

Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak. 

On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said — 
" I listened for the words, which, years ago, 

Passed o'er these waters: though the voice is fled 
Which made them as a singing fountain's floWj 

Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, 

Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 

" Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneathi 

I was an eagle in my youthful pride. 
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, 

To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. 
Many the times of flowers have been since then- 
Many, but bringing nought like /nm again ! 

" Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came. 
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 

Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, 
Laying their cedars like the corn-stalks low ; 

But to spread tidings of all holy things. 

Gladdening our soul's as with the morning's wings, 

" Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
I and my brethren that from earth are gone. 

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery lone V 

He told of one, the grave's dark bai.ds who brok«. 

And our hearts burned w'thin us as he eix)k«» 



U2 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



" He told of far and sunny lands, which lie 
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell : 

Bright must they be ! — for there are none that die, 
And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!' 

He came to guide us thither ; — but away 

The Happy called him, and he might not stay. 

" We saw him slowly fade, — athirst, perchance, 
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; 

Yet was there still a sunbeam in liis glance. 
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time, — 

Therefore we hoped : — but now the lake looks dim. 

For the green summer comes, — and finds not him ! 

" We gathered round him in the dewy hour 
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 

From his clear voice, at first, the words of power 
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; 

But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long. 

As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 

" And then once more they trembled on his tongue, 
And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head 

Fell back, and mists upon his foreiiead hung, — 
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? 

It is enough 1 — he sank upon my breast — 

Our friend that loved us, he was gone to i'est ! 

" We buried him where he was wont to pray, 
By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 

We reared this Cross in token where he lay, 
For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died ! 

Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave. 

That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. 

" But I am sad ! — I mourn the clear light taken 
Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, 

The pathway to the better shore forsaken. 
And the true words forgotten, save by one, 

Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, 

Mingled v/i^h death-songs in each fitful blast." 

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindhng eye : — 
" Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 

Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, 
And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot ! 

Heaven darkly works; yet where the seed hath been 

There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. 

" Hope on, hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; 

And by the bursts of free, triumphant sitiging, 
After cold silent months, the woods among ; 

And by the rending of the frozen chains, 

Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains; 

' Deem notthe wordsof lightthathere were spoken, 
But as a lovely song to leave no trace, 

V'etshaH thegloom which Virapsthy hills be broken, 
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race 1 

And fading mists the better path disclose, 

.\nd the wide desert blossom as the rose." 



So by the Cross they parted, in the wild, 

Each fraught with musings for life's afler-day 

Memories to visit one, the forest's child. 
By many a blue stream in its lonely way ; 

And upon one, midst busy throngs to press 

Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 



LAST RITES. 

By the mighty minster's bell, 
Tolling with a sudden swell ; 
By the colours half-mast high, 
O'er the sea hung mournfully ; 
Know, a prince hath died ! 

By the drum's dull muffled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone, 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 
In his manhood's pride. 

By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hills,''' 
Learn, that from his harvests done 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snow^y white 
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright; 
By the garland on the bier. 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear — 
Broken is the rose 1 

Which is the tenderest rite of alii 
Buried virgin's coronal. 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farewell gun for warrior dead. 
Herdsman's funeral hymnl 

Tells not each of human wo 1 
Each of hope and strength brought low 1 
Number each with holy things, 
If one chastening thought it brings, 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. 
Tlie inviolate Island of the sage and free. — Byron. 

Rocks of my country ! let the cloud 

Your crested heights array, 
And rise ye like a fortress proua, 

Abovie the surge and spray ! 



' A custom still retained at rural funerala it* some jiarts o* 
England and Walea 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



313 



My spirit greets you as ye stand, 
Breasting thp jillow's foam: 

Oh ! thus for ever guard the land, 
The severed Land of Home ! 

I have left rich hlue skies behind, 

Lighting up classic shrines, 
And music in the southern wind, 

And sunshine on the vines. 

The breathings of tlie myrtle flowers, 

Have floated o'er my way ; 
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours. 

Hath soothed me with its lay. 

The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain, 
The purple Heavens of Rome, — 

Yes, all are glorious ; — yet again, 
I bless thee, Land of Home ! 

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land ! 

And thine the guarded hearth ; 
And thine the dead, the noble band. 

That make thee holy earth. 

Their voices meet me in thy breeze, 
Their steps are on thy plains; 

Their names, by old majestic trees. 
Are whispered round thy fanes. 

Their blood hath mingled with the tide 

Of thine exulting sea : 
Oh ! be it still a joy, a pride, 

To live and die for thee ! 



THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRO- 
DIGAL. 

Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern, 
Wie riift es dir freundlich und lind ; 
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern 1 
Komm' spielen, du fteundliches Kind ! 

\ La Molle Fouquc , 

Oh ! when wilt thou return 

To thy sprit's early loves 1 
To the freshness of the morn, 

To the stillness of the groves? 

The summer-birds are calling 

Thy household porch around. 
And the merry waters faUing, 

With sweet laughter in their sound. 

And a thousand bright-veined flowers 
From their banks of moss and fern. 

Breathe of the sunny hours — 
But when wilt thou return? 

Oh ! thou ha-jt wandered long 

From thy home without a guide, 
<!Lnd thy native woodland song, 

\q thine altered h^art hath died. 



Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
And the glory of thy spring ; 

And to thee the leaves' light play, 
Is a long-forgotten thing. 

But when wilt thou return 1 — 
Sweet dews may freshen soon 

The flower, within whose urn 
Too fiercely gazed the noon. 

O'er the image of the sky, 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, 
Darkly may shadows lie — 

But not for evermore. 

Give back thy heart again. 
To the freedom of the woods, 

To the birds' triumphant strain, 
To the mountain solitudes ! 

But when wilt thou return ? 

Along thine own pure air, 
There are young sweet voices borne — 

Oh ! should not thine be there 1 

Still at thy father's board 

There is kept a place for thee, 

And, by thy smile restored, 
Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye. 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look of days gone by. 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said. 
For thee kind bosoms yearn. 

For thee fond tears are shed — 
Oh! when wilt thou return ? 



THE WAKENING. 

How many thousands are wakening now ! 
Some to the songs from the forest-bough. 
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-nane, 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

And some far out on the deep mid-sea, 
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee 
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side, 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride 

And some — oh ! well may their heart's rej.oic» 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice ! 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly toue. 
When from the board and the hearth 't is gonr. 

And some in the camp, to the bugle's breath, 
And the tramp of the steed on tne echoing heatb, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, 
Which tells that a fleid must ere night be won 



And some, in the gloomy convict-cell, 

To the dull deep note of the warning bell, 

As it heavily calls them forth to die, 

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 
And some to tlie din from the city borne, 
And some to the rolling of torrent-lioods. 
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods. 

So are we roused on this chequered earth, 
Each unto light hath a daily birth. 
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, 
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet. 

But one must the sound be, and one the call, 
Which from the dust shall awake us all. 
One — hut to severed and distant dooms — 
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs ? 



THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.* 

My heart shall be poured over thee — and break. 

Prophecy of Dante. 

The spirit of my land ! 
It visits me once more ! — though I must die 
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze has fanned. 

My own bright Italy ! 

It is, it is thy breath, 
Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 
Is shaken by the wind ; — in life and death 

Still trembling, yet the same 1 

Oh ! that love's quenchless power 
^ilght waft my voice to fill thy summer sky. 
And through thy groves its dying music shower, 

Italy! Italy! 

The nightingale is there. 
The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flov^er's perfume. 
The south-wind's whisper in the scented air — 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, oh! never more, ^ 

On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell. 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore — 

My Italy, farewell ! 

Alas ! — thy hills among, 
riad I but left a memory of my name, 
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, 

Unto immortal fame ! 

^ut like a lute's brief tone. 
Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast. 
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone, 

So hath my spirit passed ! 



• Sestini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his death- 
bod at Paris, is said to have poured fonli a Farewell to Italy, 
ki uis m'v-.t impassioned poetry. 



Pouring itself away. 
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, 

Into a fleeting lay , 

That swells, and floats, and dies, 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassioned sighs, 

Which thrilled their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me ! 
Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, 
When from my bosom, joyously and free, 

The fiery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, 
And when woods kindle into spring's first hue. 

Sweet friends ! remember me ! 

And in the marble halls, 
Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear, 
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls, 

Let me be with you there ! 

Fain would I bind for you 
My memory with all glorious inings to dwell ; 
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew — 

Sweet friends, bright land, farewell ! 

MUSIC OF YESTERDAY. 

O ! mein Geist, ich fiihle es in mir, strebt nach etwM 
Ueberirdischem, das keinem Menschen gegonnt ist. — Tieck. 

The chord, the harp's full chord is hushed, 

The voice hath died away, 
Whence music, like sweet waters, gushed. 

But yesterday. 

Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell, 

The full o'ersweeping tone. 
The sounds that sighed, " Farewell, farewell !" 

Are gone — all gone. 

The love, whose fervent spirit passed 

With the rich measure's flow ; 
The grief to which it sank at last — 

Where are they now 1 

They are with the scents, by summer's breath 

Borne from a rose now shed ; 
With the words from lips long sealed in death - 

For ever fled. 

The sea-shell of its native deep 

A moaning thrill retains, 
But earth and air no record keep 

Of parted strains. 

And all the memories, all the dreams. 

They woke in floating by ; 
The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleama — ' 

Could these too die? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



345 



They died — as on the water's breast 

The ripple melts avvaj^, 
When tlie breeze that stirred it sinks to rest — 

So perished they ! 

Mysterious in their sudden birth, 

And mourni'ul in their close, 
Passing, and finding not on earth 

Aim or repose. 

Whence were they 'i — like the breath of flowers 

Why thus to come and go ? — 
A long, long journey must be ours 

Ere this we know ! 



THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 

Was mir feWtT — Mir fehlt ja alles. 
Bin so ganz verlassen hier ! 

Tyrolese Melody, 

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the fire is 

quenched and gone, 
That into happy children's eyes once brightly 

laughing shone ; 
The place where mirth and music met is hushed 

through day and night, — 
Oh ! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there 

made light ! 

But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by 

mount and shore, 
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed 

to meet no more ; 
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's 

joy or mirth. 
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home — alas ! the 

lonely Hearth ! 

The voices that have mingled here now speak ano- 
ther tongue, 

Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their 
mother sung : 

Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound 
each household tone, — 

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate, the bright fire 
quenched and gone. 

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days 

of glcel 
Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on 

earth or sea 1 — 
Oh ! some are hushed, and some are changed, and 

never shall one strain 
Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again ! 

And of the hearts that here were linked by long- 
remembered years, 

Alas ! the brother knows not now when fall the 
sister's tears 1 



One haply revels at the feast, while one may diooj' 

alone. 
For broken is the houseliold chain, the bright fita 

quenched and gone ! 

Not so — 't is not a broken chain — thy memory 
binds them still. 

Thou holy tiearth of other days, though silent now 
and chill ! 

The smiles, the tears, the rites beheld by thine at- 
testing stone. 

Have yet a living power to mark thy children for 
thine own. 

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though 

called from earth away, 
With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet 

shall sway ; 
And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet 

are one. 
Though the loved Hearth be desolate, the bright 

fire quenched and gone ! 

THE DREAMER. 

There is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind ; 
a thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between 
our present consciousness, and tlie secret inscription on the 
mind; but aUIce, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscrijition 
remains for ever. — English Opium-Eater. 

Thou hast been called, O, Sleep ! the friend of wo, 
But 't is tl'e happy who have called thee so. 

Soulliey. 

Peace to thy dreams ! — thou art slumbering now, 
The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow; 
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast. 
Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest, 
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, 
When eve through the woodlands hath sighed 
farewell. 

Peace ! — the sad memories that through the day 
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay. 
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, 
That bowed thee, as winds bow the \< illow's hea(^, 
The yearnings for faces and voices gmie — 
All are forgotten ! — Sleep on, sleep on ! 

Are they forgotten ? — It is not so ! 
Slumber divides not the heart from its v>o. 
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift change^ pass, 
Like lights and shades over wavy grass : 
Tremblest thou. Dreamer 1 — O love and i;rief ' 
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed up leal 

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill. 

As on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 

On tlie long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, 

There's a large tear gathering heavily ; 

A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed- 

Sorrowful Dreamer ! this is not rest ! 



U is Tliought at work amidst buried hours, 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. — 
Oh ! we bear within us mysterious things, 
Of Memory and Anguish unfathomed springs, 
And Passion, those gulfs of the heart to fill, 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
Flinging the peace of our couch away ! 
Well might we look on our souls in fear. 
They find no fount of oblivion here ! 
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — 
How know we if under the wings of death 7 



THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. 



Oh ! that I had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away 
and be at rest. 



Oh ! for thy wings, thou dove ! 
Now saihng by with sunshine on thy breast ; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 

Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird 1 

In what rich leafy glooms. 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred 1 

Over what blessed home, 
Whatroofwithdark, deep, summer foliage crowned, 

O ! fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around 1 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, 

Though still, as if divine. 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude? 

Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim. thou art ! 

Unto the greenwood spray. 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove ! 

Oh ! to some cool recess 
'I'ake, take me with thee on the summer wind. 

Leaving the weariness 
A nd all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroyed— 
Bird ' bear me with thee through the sunny sky ! 



Wild wish, and longing vain, 
And brief upspringing to be glad and free ! 

Go to thy woodland reign ! 
My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 

For even by all the fears 
And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, un- 
known, 

And burning woman's tears, 
Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 

Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
High midst the gorgeous Isles of Cloud to soar, 

Soon the strong cords of love 
Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet 
once more. 



PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO 
THE ISLAND OF PLEASURE.* 

Souvent I'ame, fortifiie par la contemplation des chosea 
divines, voudroit deployer ses ailes vers le ciel. Elle croit 
qu'au terme de sa carriere un rideau va se lever pour lui 
d6couvrir des scenes de lumiere : mais quand la raort touclie 
son corps p6i'issable, ellc jette un regard en arriere vere Im 
plaisirs terrestres et vers ses compagnes monelles. — Schlegcl 
Translated by Madame de Slael. 

Fearfully and mournfully 

Thou bidd'st the earth farewell, 

And yet thou 'rt passing, loveliest one! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

Ascend, ascend rejoicing ! 

The sunshine of that shore 
Around thee, as a glorious robe, 

Shall stream for evermore. 

The breezy music wandering 
Therethrough th' Elysian sky. 

Hath no deep tone that seems to float 
From a happier time gone by : 

And there the day's last crimson 

Gives no sad memories birth. 
No thought of dead or distant friends. 

Or partings — as on earth. 

Yet fearfully and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st that earth farewell. 

Although thou 'rt passing, loveliest, one ' 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

A land where all is deathless — 

The sunny wave's repose, 
The wood with its rich melodies. 

The summer and its rose. 



* Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her fligm up 
wards, is represented looking back sad'y and anxious.y tt 
tli3 earth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



347 



A land that sees no parting, 
That hears no sound of siohs, 

That waits thee with immortal air 
Lift, Hfl those anxious eyes! 

Oh ! how hke thee, thou trembler ! 

Man's spirit fondly clings 
Witli timid love, to this, its world 

Of old familiar things ! 

We pant, we thirst for fountains 

That gush not here below ! 
On, on we toil, allured by dreams 

Of the living water's flow : 

We pine for kindred natures 

To mingle with our own ; 
For communings more full and high 

Than aught by mortal known: 

We strive with brief aspirings 
Against our bounds in vain ; 

Yet summoned to be free at last, 
We slirink — and clasp our chain ! 

And fearfully and mournfully 

We bid the earth farewell, 
rhough passing from its mists, like thee, 

In a bricfhter world to dwell. 



THE BOON OP MEMORY. 

Many things answered me. — Manfred. 

\ Go, r go ! — and must mine image fade, 

From the green spots wherein my childhood played, 

By my own streams 1 
Must m)^ life part from each familiar place, 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes 1 

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 

In grief or glee 1 
All the svyeet counsel, the communion high. 
The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 

Poured full and free? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give, 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

For evermore ! 
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
Ci the dim brooding violet of the dell. 

Set deep that thought ! 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow. 
And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low. 

With me be frau^xhl I 



And Memory answered me: — " Wild wish and vaini 
I have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 
The place they held in bosoms all their own, 
Soon with new shadows fill'd,ne w flowers o'ergro wH; 

Is theirs no more." 

Hast thou such power, O Love? — And Love replied 
" It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust. 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
'T is but to write, with the heart's fiery rain. 

Wild words on dust !" 

Song, is the gift with thee 1 — I ask a lay. 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

From the still breast ; 
Filled with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name. 

Where it would rest. 

And Song made answer — " It is not in me. 
Though called immortal ; though my gifts may be 

All but divine. 
A place of lonely brightness I can give ; — 
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst 
live — 

This is not mine !" 

Death, Death ! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil 1 
And Death, the Strong One, spoke: — " lean but still 

Each vain regret. 
What if forgotten ? — All thy soul would crave, 
Thou too, within the mantle of the grave. 

Wilt soon forget." 

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, 
As from all nature's voices one reply. 

But one, was given : — 
" Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone 
To send thee back the spirit of thine own — 

Seek it in Heaven." 



THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 

The kings of old have shrine and tumh, 
In many a minster's haughty gloom; 
And green, along the ocean side,- 
The mounds arise where heroes died ; 
But show me, on thy flowery breast. 
Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 

The thousands that, uncheered by praise. 
Have made one offering of their days ; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake, 
Resigned the bitter cup to take, 
And silently, in fearless faith. 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 

Where sleep they. Earth 1 — by no proud stone 
Their narrow couch of rest is knovi'n: 



The still sad glory of their name, 

Hallows no mountain unto Fame : 

No — not a tree the record bears 

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 

Yet haply all around lie strewed 

The ashes of that multitude : 

It may be that each day we tread, 

Where thus devoted hearts have bled, 

And the young flowers our children sow, 

Take root in holy dust below. 

Oh ! that the many-rustling leaves, 
Which round our homes the summer weaves, 
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 
Our own familiar paths rejoice, 
Might whisper through the starry sky. 
To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 

Would not our inmost hearts be stilled, 
With knowledge of their presence filled, 
And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice 1 
— But the old woods and sounding waves 
Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there 
fn pilgrim-love and awe repair. 
So let it be ! — like him, wliose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay, 
They sleep in secret, — but their sod, 
Unknown to man, is marked of God ! 



DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 

Dream'st thou of Heaven 1 — What dreams are 
thine ? 

Fair child, fair gladsome child ! 
With eyes that like the dew-drop shine, 

And bounding footstep wild. 

Tell me what hues th' immortal shore 

Can wear, my Bird ! to thee, 
Ere yet one shadow hath passed o'er 

Thy glance anl spirit free1 



" Oh ! beautiful is heaven, and bright 
With long, long summer days ! 

I see its lilies gleam in light. 
Where many a fountain plays. 

" And there unchecked, methinks, I rov® 
Seeking where young flowers lie. 

In vale and golden-fruited grove — 
Flowers that are not to die 1" 

Thou Poet of the lonely thought, 

Sad heir of gifts divine ! 
Say, with what solemn glory fraught 

Is Heaven in dream of thine 1 

Oh ! where the living waters flow 

Along that radiant shore, 
My soul, a wanderer here, shall knew 

The exile-thirst no more ! 

" The burden of the stranger's heart 
Which here unknown I bear. 

Like the night-shadow shall depart 
With my first wakening there. 

" And borne on eagles wings afar, 
Free thought shall claim its dower 

From every sphere, from every star, 
Of glory and of power." 

0, Woman ! with the sofl; sad eye 

Of spiritual gleam ! 
Tell me of those bright realms on high, 

How doth thy deep heart dream 1 

By thy sweet mournful voice I know, 

On thy pale brow I see. 
That thou hast loved in silent wo, 

Say, what is Heaven to thee ? 

" Oh 1 Heaven is where no secret dread 
May haunt Love's meeting hour ; 

Where from the past, no gloom is shed 
O'er the heart's chosen bower ; 

" Where every severed wreath is bound ; 

And none have heard the knell 
That smites the soul in that wild sound— 

Fare well ! Beloved. Fp.^ ewell i" 



itmm mitr ^mivif$ of MU* 



THE ENGLISH MARTYRS. 



*. SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY. 



Thy face 
Is all at once spread over with a calm 
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy. 
I am no more disconsolate. 

Wilson. 



Scene in a Prison. 
Edith alone. 

Edith. MoR\ once again! Morn in the lone 

dim celL, 
The cavern of the prisoner's fever dream, 
And morn on all the green rejoicing hills, 
And the bright waters round the prisoner's home. 
Far, far avsray ! Now wakes the early bird 
That in the lime's transparent foliage sings, 
Close to my cottage lattice — he awakes. 
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul. 
And to call forth rich answers of delight 
From voices buried in a thousand trees. 
Through the dim starry hours. Now doth the 

lake 
Darken and flash in rapid interchange 
Unto the matin breeze ; and the blue mist 
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows 
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise 
As if new-born. Bright world ! and I am here ! 
And thou, O thou ! th' awakening thought of 

whom 
Was more than day-spring, dearer than the sun, 
Herbert ! the very glance of whose clear eye 
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount 
Of living, bounding gladness! — where art thou? 
My friend ! my only and my blessed love ! 
Herbert, my soul's companion ! 

[Gomez, a Spanish priest, enters. 
Gomez. Daughter, hail ! 

I bring thee tidings. 

Edith. Heaven will aid my soul 

Calmly to mret whate'er thy lips announce. 
Gomez. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to 

Heaven, 
And bow thy knee Aovm for deliverance won ! 
£Iast thou not pray'd for life ? and wouldst thou 

not 
Once more be free ? 

Edith, Have I not pray'd for life ? 

r, til at am st< beloved ! that love again 
VVitli such a heart of tendrils ? Heaven ! th(m 

know'st 

.39 



The gushings of my prayer ! And would 1 not 
Once more be free ? I, that have been a child 
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn 
In ancient woodlands, from mine infancy ! 
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars. 
Beneath the adoring silence of the night ; 
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams, 
Whose laughter fills the mountains ! Oh ! to hear 
Their blessed sounds again ! 

Gomez. Rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Our Queen hath pity, maiden, on thy youth ; 
She wills not thou shouldst perish. — I am come 
To loose thy bonds. 

Edith. And shall I see his face, 

And shall I listen to his voice again. 
And lay my head upon his faithful breast, 
Weeping there in my gladness ? Will this be ? — ■ 
Blessings upon thee, father ! my quick heart 
Hath deem'd thee stern — say, wilt thou not for- 
give 
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear'd, 
Too long imused to chastening ? Wilt thou 

not?— 
But Herbert, Herbert ! Oh, my soul hath rush'd 
On a swift gust of sudden joy away. 
Forgetting all beside ? Speak, father, speak ! 
Herbert — is he too free ? 

Gomez. His freedom lies 

In his own choice — a boon like thine. 

Edith. Thy words 

Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart. 
Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing me. 
Let all be told. 

Gomez. The monarchs of the earth 

Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim 
Unto some token of true vassalage. 
Some mark of homage. 

Edith. Oh ! unlike to Him, 

Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth, 
And the bright quickening rain, on those who 

serve 
And those who heed him not ! 

Gomez, (laying a paper before her.) Is it so 
much 
That thine own hand should set the crowning 

seal 
To thy deliverance ? Look, thy task is here ! 
Sign but these words for liberty and life 

Edith, {examining and then throwing it jroir 
her.) 
Sign but these words ! and wherefore said"* 

thou not, 
" Be but a traitor to God's light within ?"- 
Cruel, oh, cruel ! thy dark sport hath beer. 



350 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



With a young bosom's hope ! Farewell, glad 

lite! 
Bright opening path to love and home, farewell I 
And thou — now leave me with my God alone I 

Gomez. Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy ? 

Edith. Heaven's ! doth Heaven 

Woo the free spirit !br dishonour'd breath 
To sell its birthright ? doth Heaven set a price 
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith, 
And the bright calm of conscience ? Priest, 

away ! 
God haih been with me 'midst the holiness 
Of England's mountains — not in sport alone 
I trod their heath-flowers — but high thoughts 

rose up 
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks, 
And wander'd witli me into solemn glens. 
Where my soul felt the beauty of His word. 
I have heard voices of immortal truth. 
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds 
That make the deep hills tremble. — Shall I quail ? 
Shall England's daughter sink? — No! He who 

there 
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm. 
Will not forsake his child ! 

Gomez, {turning from her.) Then perish! lost 
In thine own blindness ! 

Edith, {suddenly throwing herself at his feet.) 
Father ! hear me yet ! 
Oh ! if the kindly touch of human love 
Hath ever warm'd thy breast 

Gomez. Away — away ! 

I know not love. 

Edith. Yet hear ! if thou hast known 
The tender sweetness of a mother's voice — 
If the true vigil of affection's eye 
Hath watch'd thy childhood — if fond tears have 

e'er 
Been shower'd upon thy head — if parting words 
E'er pierced thy spirit witli tlieir tenderness — 
Let me but look upon his face once more, 
Let me but say — Farewell, my soul's beloved ! 
And I will bless thee still ! 

Gomez, {aside.) Her soul may yield, 

Beholding him in fetters ; woman's faith 
Will bend to woman's love — 

Thy prayer is heard; 
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell, 

Edith. Oh ! stormy hour of agony and joy !' 
But I shall see him — I shall hear his voice ! 

[ They go out. 



SCENE II. 

Another part of the Prison. 

Herbert — Edith. 

Edith. Herbert, my Herbert! is it thus we 

meet? 
Herbert. The voice of my own Edith ! Can 
such joy 
Lighl up this place of death ? And do I feel 
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek, 
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair, 
Mv lAcssed Edith ? Oh , so pale ! so changed ! 



My flower, my blighted flowp- ! thou that wert 

made 
For the kind fostering of sweet summer airs, 
How hath the storm been with thee ! — Lay thy 

head 
On this true breast again, my gentle one ! 
And tell me all. 

Edith. Yes, take me to thy heart, 

For I am weary, weary ! Oh ! that heart ! 
The kind, the brave, the tender ! — how my soul 
Hath sicken'd in vain yearnings for the balm 
Of rest on that warm heart ! fiill, deep repose ! 
One draught of dewy stiUness after storm ! 
And God hath pitied me, and I am here — 
Yet once before I die ! 

Herbert. They cannot slay 

One, young and meek, and beautiful as tliou ! 
My broken lily ! Surely the long days 
Of the dark cell have been enough for thee I 
Oh ! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head 
Yet in calm sunshine. 

Edith. Herbert ! I have cast 

The snare of proffer'd mercy from my soul. 
This very hour. God to the weak hath given 
Victory o'er life and death I — The tempter's price 
Hath been rejected — Herbert, I must die. 

Herbert. O Edith ! Edith ! I, that led thee first 
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod — 
I, tliat received it as an angel's task, 
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul. 
Which drank it as a sunflower — / have been 
Thy guide to death ! 

Edith. To Heaven, my guide to Heaven, 

My noble and my bless'd ! Oh ! look up. 
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert ! But for thee. 
How could my spirit have sprung up to God, 
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision 

hung. 
The night of fear and error ? thy dear hand 
First raised that veil, and show'd the glorious 

world. 
My heritage beyond — Friend ! love and friend I 
It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul 
In those bright days ! Yes ! a new earth and 

heaven. 
And a new sense for all their splendours born, 
These were my gifts ! and shall I not rejoice 
To die, upholding their immortal worth, 
Even fbr thy sake ? Yes, fiU'd with nobler life 
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth, 
Lay me upon the altar of thy God, 
The first fruits of thy ministry below ; 
Thy work, thine own ! 

Herbert. My love, my sainted love 

Oh ! I can almost yield thee unto heaven ; 
Earth would but sully thee ! Thou must depart 
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts 
Untainted by a breath ! And yet, alas ! 
Edith ! what dreams of holy happiness, 
Even for this world, were om*s I the low, sweet 

home — 
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch. 
And lattice gleaming through the leaves — and 

thou. 
My life's companion ! — Thou, beside my hearth 
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me 



Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, 
In the gixcn meadow path, or by my side 
KneeUng — Uiy edm upUl'tcd face to mine. 
In the sweet Imsh of prayer ! and now — oh 

now — 
How have we loved — 'how fervently, how long ! 
Ajid this to be the close ! 

Edith. Oh ! bear me up 

Against the unutterable tenderness 
Of eartUy love, my God ! in tlie sick hour 
Of dying human hope, forsake me not ! 
Herbert I my Herbert ! even that sweet home 
Wliere it liad been too much of Paradise 
To dwell witli thee — even thence the oppressor's 

hand 
Might soon have torn us ; or the touch of death 
Might one day there have left a widow'd heart, 
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved ! 
To the bright comitry, where the wicked cease 
From troubling, Vv'here the spoiler hath .no sway ; 
Wliere no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs 
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence, 
Together with our wedded souls, to Heaven : 
No solitary lingering, no cold void. 
No dying of the heart ! Our lives have been 
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths 
We will not be divided. 

Herbert. Oh ! the peace 

Of God is lying far within thine eyes, 
Far underneath the mist of human tears, 
Lighting those blue still depths, and sinking thence 
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength. 
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for Heaven ! 
Edith. And let me bless thee, Herbert ! in this 
hour 
Let my soul bless thee witli prevailing might ! 
Oh ! thou hast loved me nobly ! thou didst take 
An orphan to thy heart, a thing unprized 
A"nd desolate ; and thou didst guard her there. 
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl 
Of richest price ; and thou didst fill her soul 
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth. — 
I bless, I bless thee ! Never did thine eye 
Look on me but in glistening tenderness. 
My gentle Herbert ! Never did thy voice 
But in affection's deepest music speak 
To thy poor Edith ! Never was thy heart 
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine 
My faithful, generous Herbert ! Woman's peace 
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true 
Reposed before. — Alas ! thy showering tears 
Fall fast upon my cheek — forgive, forgive ! 
I should not melt thy strength away 
In such an hour. 

Herbert. Sweet Edith, no ! my heart 

WiQ fail no more ; God bears me up through thee. 
And, by thy words, and by the heavenly light 
Shining around thee, througli thy very tears, 
\Vill yet sustain me ! Let us call on Him ! 
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft. 
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, 
Th' all-pitying One, to aid. 

[They kneel. 
O, look on us, 
? ather above ! in tender mercy, look 



On us, t!iy children ! tlirougli tli' o'ershadowing 

cloud 
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid. 
Save or we perish ! we would pour our lives 
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth. 
But we are weak — we, the bruised reeds of earl 1^ 
Are sway'd by every gust. Forgive, O God ! 
The blindness of our passionate desires. 
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts 
Which cleave to dust ! Forgive the strife ; accept 
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears. 
From mortal pangs wrung forth ! and if our souls 
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess, 
Of their long-elasping love, have wander'd not, 
Holiest ! fi-om thee ; oh ! take them to thyself. 
After the fiery trial, take them home 
To dwell, in that imperishable bond 
Before thee linli'd for ever. Hear, througn Him 
Who meekly drank the cup of agony. 
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and 

save ! 
Pity us. Father ! we are girt with snares ; 
Father in Heaven ! we have no help but thee. 

[ They rise 
Is thy soul strengthen'd, my beloved one ? 
O Edith ! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice. 
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn 
We loved in happier days — the strain which tells 
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade ? 

[She sings 

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd. 
When but his Father's eye 

Look'd through the lonely garden's shade 
On that dread agony ; 

The Lord of All above, beneath. 

Was bow'd with sorrow unto death. 

Tlie sun set in a fearful hour, 
The stars might well grow dim, 

When this mortality had power 
So to o'ershadow Him ! 

Tliat He who gave man's breath, might knov 
The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all ! the doubt, the strife 

The faint perplexing dread. 
The mists that hang o'er parting life. 

All gather'd round his head ; 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray — 

Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away ! 

It pass'd not — thougli the stormy wave 

Had smik beneath his tread ; 
It pass'd not — though to him the grave 

Had jnelded up its dead. 
But there was sent from him on high 

A gift of strength ibr man to die. 

And was the sinless thus beset 

With iuiguisli and dismay ? 
How may ice meet our conflict yet. 

In the dark narrow way ? 
Thro' Him — Thro' Him, Jliat path wlio trort 

Save, or we perish, S't of God ! 

Hark ! hark ! the parting signal 



[Prison attendants enter. 
Fare thee well ! 
O thou unutterably loved, farewell ! 
Let our hearts bow to God ! 

Herbert. One last embrace — 

On earth the last! — We have eternity 
For love's communion yet I — Farewell ! — fare- 
well! 

[Ske is led out. 
'T is o'er — the bitterness of death is past ! 



FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF 

SICKNESS. 



Once when I look'd along the laughing earth, 

Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air. 

Joyfully ringing wiUi the sky-larl;'s song, 

I wept ! and thought how sad for one so young, 

To bid farewell to so much happiness. 

But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world, 

Delightful though it be. 

Wilson. 



Apartment in an English Country-House. — Lilian 
reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her Mother 
watching beside her. Her Sister enters with 
flowers. 

Mother. Hush, lightly tread ! still tranquilly 

she sleeps. 
As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart. 
I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear 
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently ! 
And oh ! those flowers ! dear Jessy, bear them 

hence — 
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears 
That shook her trembling frame, when last we 

brought 
The roses to her couch ? Dost thou not know 
What sudden longings for the woods and hills, 
Where once her ftee steps moved so buoyantly, 
These leaves and odours with strange influence 

wake 
In her fast-kindled soul ? 

Jessy. Oh ! she would pine. 

Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld. 
Mother ! far more than now her spirit yearns 
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks 
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome 

spring 
Their blooms recall. 

Lilian, (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's 

voice ? 
It woke me not, sweet mother ! I had lain 
Silently, visited by waking dreams, 
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness, 
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought 

flowers ? 
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's wayward- 
ness. 
My thoughtful mother ! — in her chasten'd soul 
The passion-colour'd images of life, 
Which, with their sudden startling flush, awoke 
So ofl those burning tears, have died awav ; 



And night is there — still, solemn, holy night, 
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune 
Of many fountains, low and musical, 
By day unheard. 

Mother. And wherefore night, my shild ? 

Thou art a creature all of life and dawn. 
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise. 
And walk forth with the day-spring. 

Lilian. Hope it not 

Dream it no more, my mother ! there are things 
Known but to God, and to the parting soul, 
Which feels his thrilling summons. 

But my words 
Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes. 
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy ! Ah ! thy step 
Well do I see, hath not alone explored 
The garden bowers, but freely visited 
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow 

sweet 
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook. 
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy 

stones 
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that 

spot 
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first ? 
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep 
The clear brown wave with every passing wind ? 
And through the shallower waters, where they 

lie 
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam 
Like bedded gems ? And the white butterflies, 
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still 
Among the poplar-boughs ? 

Jessy. All, all is there 

Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can 

bring : 
All, save tlie soul of all, thy lightening smile ! 
Therefore I stood in sadness, 'midst the leaves, 
And caught an und6r-music of lament 
In the stream's voice ; but Nature wait? thee 

still. 
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne 
Of richest moss. 

Lilian. Alas ! it may not be ! 

My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly. 
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought ; 
Yet not the less I love to look on these. 
Their dear memorials: strew them o'er my 

couch, 
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring, 
All flush'd with violets and anemones. 
Ah ! the pale brier rose ! tduch'd so tenderly. 
As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red. 
Melting away to pearliness ! — I know 
How its light festoons o'erarching hung 
From the gray rock, that rises altar-like, 
With its high waving crown of mountain ash, 
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich boiig't? 
Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak 
Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily 
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face 
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now 
I look up through the stirring of its leaves 
Unto the intense blue crystal firmament. 
The ring-dove's wing is flitting o'er my head, 
Casting at times a silvery shadow down 




'Midst the larg-c water-lilies. Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this fair, free world 
Under God's open sky ! 

Mother. Thou art o'erwrouj^ht 

Once more, my child ! The dewy trembling light 
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. 
O, hush, dear Lilian ! turn thee to repose. 

Lilian. Mother, I cannot. In my soul tlie 
thoughts 
Burn wifli too subtle and too swift a fire ; 
luiportunatcly to my lips they tJirong, 
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend 
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone — 
(For I tmist go) — tlien the remember'd words 
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth. 
Will to thy fond lieart be as amulets 
Held there with life and love. And weep not 

thus ! 
Mother ! dear sister ! kindest, gentlest ones ! 
Be comforted that now / weep no more 
For the glad eartli and all the golden light 
Whence I depart. 

No ! God hath purified my spirit's eye, 
And in the tblds of this consummate rose 
I read bright prophecies. I see not there. 
Dimly and mournfully, the vi^ord "/areioc/Z" 
On the rich petals traced : — No — in soft veins 
Aiid characters of beauty, I can read — 
"■ Look up, look heavenward!" 

Blessed God of Love ! 
I thanlc tliee for these gifts, the precious links 
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn ! 
I tliank thee that the loveliness of earth 
Higher tlian earth can raise me ! Are not tlicse 
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom 
Beside th' immortal streams ? Siiall I not find 
The lily of the field, the Saviour's fliower, 
In the serene and never-moaning air, 
Ajid the clear starry light of angel eyes, 
A thousand-fold more glorious ? Richer far 
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow. 
When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts, 
A record of lost love ? 

Mother. My Lilian! thou 

Surely in thy bright life hast little known 
Of lost things or of changed ! 

Lilian, Oh ! little yet, 

For thou hast been my shield ! But had it been 
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown 
Without thy love — O mother I there are hearts 
So perilously fashion'd, that for them 
God's touch alone had gentleness enough 
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strains ! — 
We will no^ speak of this ! 

By what strange spell 
Is it, tliat ever, when I gaze on flowers, 
I dream of music ? Something in their hues 
'Ul melting into colour'd harmonies. 
Wafts a swift tliought of interwoven chords, 
Of blended singing tones, that swell and die 
In tenderest falls away. — O, biing thy harp. 
Sister ! a gentle heaviness at last 
Hath touch'd my eyelids : sing to me, and sleep 
Will come agam. 

Jessy. What wouldst thou hear ? Th' Italian 
Peasant's Lay, 

32* 



Which malics the desolate Campagna ring 
With " Roma, Roma .'" or the Madrigal 
Warbled on moonliglit seas of Sicily ? 
Or the old ditty Icit by I'roubadours 
To girls of Languedoc ? 

Lilian. Oh, no ! not these. 

Jessy. What then ? the Moorish melody still 
known 
Within the Alhambra city ? or those notes 
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart 
Even unto death ? 

Lilian. No, sister, nor yet these. — 

Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, 
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes 
In the caressing sweetness of their tones. 
For one who dies : — They would but woo me 

back 
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds — 
And vainly, vainly — No ! a loftier strain, 
A deeper music ! — Something that may bear 
The spirit up on slow yet mighty wings, 
Unsway'd by gusts of earth : something, all fill'd 
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer. — 
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd 
Almost too sternly simple, too austere 
In its grave majesty ! I love it now — 
Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush 
All billows of the soul, e'en like his voice 
That said of old — " Be still !" Sing me that 

strain — 
" The Saviour's dying hour." 

[Jessy sings to the Harp, 
O Son of Man ! 
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully ! 
All that on us is laid. 
All the deep gloom. 
The desolation and th' abandonment, 
The dark amaze of death ; 
All upon thee too fell. 
Redeemer! Son of Maai! 



But the keen pang 
Wherewith the silver cord 
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung , 
The uptcaring of those tendrils which have 
grown 

Into the quick strong heart ; 
This, this, the passion and the agony 
Of battling love and death. 
Surely was not for thee. 
Holy One ! Son of God • 

Yes, my Redeemer ! 
E'en this cu-p was thine ! 
Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back ; 
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts 
Of that last crowning hour 
E'en on thine awftil way to victory, 

^Vildly they call'd thee bacK I 
And weeping eyes of love 
Unto thy heart's deep core, 
Pierced through the folds of death's mystencuii 
veil 

Sufferer I thou Son of Maji ' 




Mother-tears were mingled 
With thy costly blood-drops, 

Jn the shadow of the atoning woss ; 

And the friend, the faithful, 
Ho that on tliy bosom, 

I'hence imbibing heavenly love, had lain — 
He, a pale sad watcher — 
Met with looks of anguish, 

All the anguish in thy last meek glance — 
Dying Son of Man ! 

Oh ! therefore unto thee. 
Thou tliat hast known all woes " 
Bound in the girdle of mortality ! 

Thou that wilt lift the reed 
Which storms have bruised, 
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, 
AJid, in that tempest-hour when love and life 
Mysteriously must part, 

When tearful eyes 
Arc passionately bent 
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze, 
Then, then forsake us not ! 
Shed on our spirits then 
Tlie faith and deep submissivencss of thine ! 
Thou that didst love, 
Thou that didst weep and die — 
Thou that didst rise, a victor glorified ! 

Conqueror ! thou Son of God ! 



CATHEDRAL HYMN 



They dreamt not of a perishable home 

Who thus could build. Be rnine in hours of fear 

Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here." 

Wordsworth. 



A DIM and mighty minster of old time ! 

A temple shadowy with remembrances 

Of the majestic past ! — the very light 

Streams with a colouring of heroic days 

[n every ray, which leads through arch and aisle 

A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 

To other years ; and the rich fretted roof. 

And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 

Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose — 

The tenderest image of mortality — 

Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 

Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves — all these 

things 
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly. 
On their heart's worship povir'd a wealth of love ! 
Honour be with tlte dead ! — The people kneel 
Under the holms of antique chivalry, 

nd in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, 
And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber 

carved, 
Ot warriors on tlieir tombs. — The people kneel 
Wliore mail-clad cliiefs have knelt ! where jewell'd 

crowns 
On the fliish'd brows of conquerors have been set ; 
VVJiere the lugh anthems of old victories 
H;r.c miide the dust give echoes. — Hence, vain 

thoughts 



Memories of power and pride, which long ago, 

Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 

In twilight depths away. — Return, my soul ! 

Tlie cross recalls thee — Lo ! the blessed cross ! 

High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 

Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy ! 

And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 

With all their secret scrolls of buried grief. 

All their full treasures of immortal hope, 

Gather'd before their God ! Hark ! how the floo( 

Of the rich organ harmony bears up 

Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty burst ' 

A forest-sounding music ! — every tone 

Which tlie blasts call forth with their harping 

wings 
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent : 
And the old minster — forest-like itself — 
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade, 
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy 
Answering the electric notes. — Join, join, my 

soul! 
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, 
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 

Rise like an altar-fire ! 

In solemn joy aspire. 
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain ! 

On thy strong rushing wind 

Bear up from human kind 
Thanks and implorings — be they not in vain ! 

Father, which art on high ! 

Weak is the melody 
Of harp or song to reach tliine awful ear. 

Unless the heart be there, 

Winging the words of prayer, 
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 

Let, then, thy spirit brood 

Over the multitude — 
Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest! 

So shall their cry have power 

To win from thee a shower 
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. 

What griefs that make no sign, 

That ask no aid but thine. 
Father of Mercies ! here before thee swell. 

As to the open sky. 

All their dark waters lie 
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell. 

The sorrow for the dead. 

Mantling its lonely head 
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free ; 

And the fond, aching love. 

Thy minister, to move 
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee 

And dotlr not thy dread eye 

Behold the agony 
In that most hidden chamber of the heart. 

Where darkly sits remorse. 

Beside the secret source 
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart ? 



Yes ! here before tliy throne 

Many — yet eaeh alone — 
To llioc that terrible imveiling- make : 

And still small whispers clear 

Are startling many an ear, 
As if a ti-umpct bade the dead awake. 

How drcadfiil is this place 1 

The glory of thy face 
Fills it too scarchingly for mortal sight : 

Where shall the guilty flee ? 

Over what far-off sea ? 
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from 
that light? 

Not to tlie cedar shade 

Let his vain flight be made ; 
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 

What, but the cross, can yield 

The hope, — the stay — the shield? 
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee ! 

Be thou, be thou his aid ! 

Oh ! let thy love pervade 
The haunted eaves of self-accusing thought ! 

There let the living stone 

Be cleft — the seed be sown — 
Tlie song of fountains from the silence brought ! 

So shall thy breath once more 

Within the soul restore 
Thine own first image — Holiest and most High ! 

As a clear lake is fill'd 

With hues of Heaven, instill'd 
Down to the depths of its calm purity. 

And if, amidst the throng 

Link'd by the ascending song. 
There axe, whose thoughts in trembling rapture 
soar ; 

Tiianks, Father ! that the power 

Of joy, man's early dower, 
Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore ! 

Thanks for each gift divine ! 

Eternal praise be thine. 
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer ! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed that waits thy harvest-time, is there. 



WOOD WALK AND HYMN. 



Move along these shades 
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand 
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 

Wordsworth. 



FATHER. CHI LD. 

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery 

leaves 
Trembling, for ever trembling ! though the lime 
And chestnut boughs, and those long archino- 

sprays 



Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood 
Were all one picture ! 

Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, 

The peasant's legend of that quivering tree ? 

Child. No, fiither; doth he say the fairies 
dance 
Amidst the branches ? 

Father. Oh ! a cause more deep, 

More solemn far, the rustic doth assign 
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves ' 
The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereon 
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death, 
Was framed of aspen wood ; and since that hour 
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down 
A thrilling consciousness a secret awe. 
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze 
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes 
The light lines of the shining gossamer. 

Child, (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, 
father ? 

Father. Nay, my child, 

We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, 
With something of a lingering love, I read 
The characters, by that mysterious hour, 
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man 
In visionary days ; and thence thrown back 
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign 
Of the great sacrifice which won us Heaven, 
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace 
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so ! 
They do not wisely, that, with hurried hand, 
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth 
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast, 
And scatter them — far, far too fast ! — away 
As worthless weeds : — Oh ! little do we know 
When they have soothed, when saved ! 

But come, dear boy ! 
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for 

thee. 
Come — let us search for violets. 

Child. Know yoti not 

More of the legends which the woodmen tell 
Amidst the trees and flowers ? 

Father. Wilt thou know more T 

Bring then the folding leaf, with dark brown 

stains. 
There — by the mossy roots of yon old beech, 
'Pvlidst the rich tuft of cowslips — see'st thou not ? 
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree 
Just bending o'er it, with a wild bee's weight. 

Child. The Arum leaf? 

Father. Yes, these deep inwrought marks 
The villager w'Jl tell thee (and with voice 
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent eariiestncss 
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood 
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew • 
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf. 
Catching from that dread shower of agony 
A few mysterious drops, transmitted tlius 
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stams 
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind 
Never to waft away I 

And hast tliou seen 
The passion-flower? — It grows not in the \V(>i)n3 
But 'midst the bright things brougbt from oiboi 
climes. 




Child. What, the pale star-shaped flower, 
with purple streaks 
And light green tendrils ? 

Father. Thou hast mark'd it well. 

Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, 
As fi'om a land of spirits ! — To mine eye 
Those faint wan petals — colourless — and yet 
Not white, but shadowy — with the mystic lines 
(As letters of some wizard language gone) 
Into their vapour-like transparence v/rought, 
Bear something of a strange solemnity. 
Awfully lovely ! — and the Christian's thought 
Loves, in their cloudy pencilling, to find 
Dread symbols of Ms Lord's last mournful pangs. 
Set by God's hand — The coronal of thorns — 
The cross — the wounds— with other meanings 

deep. 
Which I will teach thee when we meet again 
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath. 
The Saviour's holy flower. 

But let us pause : 
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart 
Of the old wood. — How the green shadows close 
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, 
A luxm-y of gloom ! — Scarce doth one ray. 
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal 
O'er the bronzed pillars of those deep arcades ; 
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue 
Of glow-worm colour'd light. 

Here, in the days 
Of pagan visions, would have been a place 
For worship of the wood nymphs ! Through 

these oaks 
A small, fair gleaming temple migjit have thrown 
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts 
On the stream's bosom ; or a sculptured form, 
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom. 
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down, 
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops 
Under bright rain : — but we, my child, are here 
With God, our God, a Spirit ; who requires 
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth ; 
And this high knowledge — deep, rich, vast 

enough 
To fill and hallow all the solitude, 
Makes consecrated earth where'er wo move, 
Without the aid of shrines. 

What ! dost thou feel 
The solemn whispering influence of the scene 
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw 
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand 
Faster in tliine ? Nay, fear not, gentle child ! 
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades 
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here, 
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope 
With dark exuberance — and beneath these plumes 
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds 
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright, 
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile, 
And let me hear once more the woodland verse 
I taught thee late — 'twas made for such a scene, 

{Child speaks 

WOOD HYMN. 

Broods there some spirit here ? 
fTie Runimer leaves hang silent as a cloud , 



And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear, 
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow il 
And something of a tender cloistral gloom 
Deepens the violet's bloom. 

The very light that streams 
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round, 
Comes tremulous witli emerald-tinted gleams, 
As if it knew the place were holy ground. 
And would not startle with too bright a burst, 

Flowers, all divinely nursed. 

Wakes there some spirit here ? 
A swift wind fraught with change, comes rusV 

ing by, 

And leaves and waters, in its wild career, 
Shed forth sweet voices — each a mystery ! 
Surely some awfiil influence must pervade 

Tliese depths of trembling shade ! 

Yes, lightly, softly move ! 
There is a power, a presence in the woods ; 
A viewless being, that, with life and love, 
Informs the reverential solitudes ; 
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod — 

Thou, thou art here, my God ! 

And if with awe we tread 
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane. 
And 'midst the mouldering banners of the deadj 
Shall the green voiceflil wild seem less thy fane, 
Where thou alone hast built ? — where arc'i and 
roof 

Are of thy living woof ? 

Tlie silence and the sound. 
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee ; 
The temple twilight of the gloom profound, 
The dew-cup of the frail anemone, 
The reed by every wandering Vfhisper thrill'd — 

All, all with thee are fill'd ! 



Oh ! purify mine eyes. 
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought. 
Thy presence, holiest One ! to recognize. 
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought 
And 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ea.' 

Ever thy voice to hear ! 

And sanctify my heart 
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone 
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, 
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own — 
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers 

Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers. 

Let me not know the change 
O'er nature thrown by guilt ! — the boding sky, 
The hollow leaf sounds ominous and strange, 
The weight wlierewitli the dark tree shadows le 
Father ! oh ! keep my footsteps pure and free 

To walk the woods with thee ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



3r,7 



PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT. 



Soul of our souls ! and safoguard of the world ' 
Sustain — Thou only canst — the sick at heart. 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine. 

IVordsworLh. 



Night — holy night ! — the time 
For mind's free breathings in a purer dime ! 
Night ! when in happier liour the unveihng sky 

Woke all my kindled soul, 
To meet its revelations, clear and high, 
With die strong joy of immortaUty ; 

Now l»ath strange sadness wrapt me — strange and 

deep — 
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll. 
E'en vrhen I deem'd tliem seraph-plumed, to sweep 
Far beyond earth's control. 

Wherefore is this ? — I see the stars returning, 
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning — 
Fast tJiine they forth — my spirit friends, my 

guides. 
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides ; 
They shine — but faintly, through a quivering 

haze — 
Oh ! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays ? 
They from whose glance my childhood drank de- 
light ! 
A joy miquestioning — a love intense — 
They, that imfolding to more thoughtflil sight, 
Tlie harmony of their magnificence, 
Drew silently the worship of my youth 
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth ! 
Shall they shower blessings, witli their beams di- 
vine, 
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea. 
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine 
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, 
And to the wanderer lone 
On wastes of Afric thrown, 

And not to me 1 
Am I a thing forsaken. 
And is the gladness taken 
from the bright pinion'd nature which hath soar'd 
'S'hrough realms by royal eagle ne'er explored, 
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light, 
*'(Mind strength to gaze upon the Infinite ? 

And now an alien ! — Wherefore must this be ? 

How shall I rend the chain ? 

How drink rich life again 
From those pure urns of radiance swelling free ? 
Father of Spirits ! let me turn to thee ! 

Oil ! if too much exulting in her dower. 
My soul not yet to lowly tliouglit subdued. 

Hath stood witliout thee on her hill of power — 
A fearful and a dazzling solitude ! 

And therefore from that haughty summit's crown. 

To dim desertion is by thee cast down ; 

Behold ! thy cliild submissively hath bow'd — 
Sliine on liim through the cloud ! 



Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd hcavec 
Back to his vision with thy face be given ! 

Bear him on high once more. 

But in tliy strength to soar. 
And wrapt and still by that o'ershadowing miglit, 
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten 
ed sight. 

Or if it be, that like the ark's lone dove, 

My thoughts go forth, and find no resting place 

No sheltering home of sympathy and love, 

In the responsive bosom of my race. 

And back return, a darkness, and a weight. 

Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate — 

Yet, yet sustain m.e. Holiest ! — I am vow'd 

To solemn service high ! 
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd, 
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, 
Fainting beneath the burden of the day. 

Because no human tone. 

Unto the altar-stone. 
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate. 
Where it should make eternal truth its mate. 
May cheer the sacred solitary way ? 

Oh ! be the Vv^hisper of thy voice within 
Enough to strengthen ! Be the hope to win 
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name, 
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame ! 
Make me thine only ! let me add but one 
To those refulgent steps all undefiled, 

Which glorious minds have piled 
Thro' bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone, 

For mounting to thy throne I 

And let my soul, upborne 

On wings of inner morn, 
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense 
Of that blest work, its own high recompense. 

The dimness melts away. 
That on your glory lay, 
O ye majestic watchers of the skies ! 
Through the dissolving veil. 
Which made each aspect pale. 
Your glad'ning fires once more I recognize ; 
And once again a shower 
Of hope, and joy, and power, 
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. 
And, if that splendour to my sobcr'd sight 
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light — 
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught, 
With more that pierces through each fold of 
thought 

Than I was wont to trace 
On Heaven's unshadow'd face- 
Be it e'en so ! — be mine, tliough set apart 
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still 
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart ; 
Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest ! wliose bles« wil' 
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil. 



THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONC 



Father, guide me ! Day declines, 
Hollow winds are in the pines 



358 



MHS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Darkly waves each giant bough 
O'er the sky's last crimson glow ; 
Hush'd is now the convent's bell, 
Which erewhile with breezy swell 
From the purple mountains bore 
Greeting to the sunset-shore. 
Now the sailor's vesper hymn 

Dies away. 
Father ! in the forest dim, 

Be my stay ! 

In the low and shivering thrill 
Of the leaves that late hung still ; 
In the dull and muffled tone 
Of the sea-wave's distant moan ; 
In the deep tints of tlic sky, 
There are signs of tempest nigh. 
Ominous, with sullen sound. 
Falls the closing dusk around. 
Father ! through the storm and shade 

O'er the wild, 
Oh ! be thou the lone one's aid — 

Save thy child 

Many a swift and sounding plume 
Homewards, through the boding gloom, 
O'er my way hath flitted fast. 
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd 
.From the chestnut's ruddy bark. 
And the pools, now lone and dark. 
Where the wakening night-winds sigh 
Through the long reeds mournfully. 
Homeward, homeward, all things haste — 

God of might! 
Shield the homeless 'midst the waste, 

Be his light ! 

In his distant cradle nest, 
Now my babe is. laid to rest ; 
Beautiful his slumber seems 
With a glow of heavenly dreams, 
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep. 
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, 
Where his mother bends to pray, 
For the loved and far away. 
Father ! guard that household bower, 

Hear that prayer ! 
Back, through thine all-guiding power. 

Lead me there ! 



Darker, wilder, grows the night — 
Not a star sends quivering light 
Through the massy arch of shade 
By the stern old forest made. 
Thou ! to whose unslumbering eyes 
AH my pathway open lies, 
By thy Son, who knew distress 
In the lonely wilderness, 
Where no roof to that blest head 

Shelter gave — 
Father ! tliroug"]! the time of dread, 

Save, oh ! save ! 



BURIAL OF AJSr EMIGRANT'S CHILD IIS 
THE FORESTS. 



Scene. — The hanks of a solitary river in an 
American forest. A tent under pine-trees in 
the foreground. Agnes sitting before the tent 
with a child in her arms, apparenthj sleeping 

Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream — a fever 

dream ! 
The desolation and the agony — 
The strange red sunrise — and the gloomy woods 
So terrible with their dark giant boughs. 
And the broad lonely river ! all a dream ! 
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear 
Wild, singing tones, as they were wont to come 
Tlnough the wreath'd sweet-brier at my lattice 

panes. 
In happy, happy England ! Speak to me ! 
Speak to my mother, bright one ! she hath 

watch'd 
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain 
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies. 
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. 
Oh ! I must wake him with one gentle kiss 
On his fair brow ! i 

(Shudderingly) The strange damp thrilling 

touch ! 
The marble chiU ! Now, now it rushes back — 
Now I know all ! — dead — dead ! — a fearful word ! 
My boy hath left me in the wilderness, 
To journey on without the blessed light 
In his deep loving eyes — he 's gone — he 's gone 1 
[Her Husband enters. 
Husband. Agnes, my Agnes ! hast thou look'd 

thy last 
On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is 

come^ 
The couch made ready for his last repose. 

Agnes. Not yet ! thou canst not take him 

fi'om me yet ! 
If he but left me for a few short days. 
Tins were too brief a gazing time, to draw 
His angel image into my fond heart, 
And fix its beauty there. And now — oh ! now, 
Never again the laughter of his eye 
Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my 

soul. 
Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay ! 
Thou canst not take him from me. 

Husband. My beloved ! 

Is it not God hath taken him ? the God 
That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave 
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and 

say, 
" His will be done !" 

Agnes. Oh! that near household grave 1 

Under the turf of England, seem'd not half. 
Not half so much to part me from my child 
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home, 
And I could watch the sunshine through all 

hours, 
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot. 
And I could dress its greenswi'd witl- fresh 

flowers — 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFK 



3M 



Familiar, meadow floworsv O'er thee, my babe, 
'I'he primrose will not blossom ! Oh ! that now, 
To<i-ctlicr, by thy fair young sister's side. 
We lay 'midst England's valleys ! 

Husband. Dost thou grieve, 

Agnes ! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep 
An exile's fortunes ? If it thus can be. 
Then, a Her many a conflict cheerly met, 
l\Iy spirit sinks at last. 

Alines. Forgive, forgive ! 

My Edmund, pardon me ! Oh ! grief is wild — 
Foro-et its words, quick spray-drops from a fount 
Of unknown bitterness ! Thou art my home ! 
Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er 
Tliy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, 
There is my country ! there my head shall rest, 
And throb no more. Oh I still, by thy strong 

love. 
Bear up the feeble reed ! 

\Kneeling with the child in her arms. 
And thou, my God! 
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness. 
Oh ! hear, and pardon me ! If I have made 
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark 
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happi- 
ness, 
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, 
Oh, pardon me ! 

If nature hath rebell'd, 
A:id from thy light turn'd wilfully away, 
Making a midnight of her agony. 
When the despairing passion of her clasp 
Was from its idol stricken at one touch 
Of thine Almighty hand — oh, pardon me ! 
By thy Son's anguish, pardon ! In the soul 
The tempests and the waves will know thy 

voice — 
Father, say " Peace, be still I" 

[Giving the child to her husband. 
Farewell, my babe ! 
Go from my bosom now to other rest ! 
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow. 
And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears, 
I yield thee to thy Maker ! 

Hushand. Now, my wife. 

Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more 
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear. 
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose — 
With a calm, trustful heart. 

Agnes. My Edmund ! where — 

Where wilt thou lay him ? 

Hushand. Seest thou where the spire 

Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun 
To burning gold ? — there — o'er yon willow-tuft ? 
Under that native desert monument 
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, 
With the gray mosses of the wilderness 
Hath hncd it closely through; and there breathed 

forth. 
E'en from the fullness of his own pure heart, 
A wild, sad forest hymn — a song of tears. 
Which thou wilt learn to love, I heard the boy 
Chanting it o'er his solitary task. 
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, 
Perchance imconsciously. 



Agnes. My gentle son ! 

Th' affectionate, the gifted! — With what joy — 
Edmund, remembercst thou ? — with what bright 

joy 

His baby brother ever to his arms 
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully 
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair 
In that kind youthful breast I — Oh ! now no 

more — 

But strengthen me, my God ! and melt my heart, 
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears. 
For many a blessing left. 

{Bending over the Child.) Once more farewell 1 
Oh ! the pale piercing sweetness of that look ! 
How can it be sustain'd ? Away, away ! 

[After a short pause. 
Edmund, my woman's nature still is weak — 
I cannot see thee render dust to dust ! 
Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task ; 
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer 
Till thy return. 

Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer ! 
Peace with thy bosom ! Faith and heavenly hope 
Unto thy spirit ! Far.e thee well awhile. 
We must be pilgrims of the woods again, 
After this mournfiil hour. 

[He goes out with the child. Agnes kneels in 
prayer. After a time, voices without an 
heard singing 

THE FUNERAL, HYMN. 

Where the long reeds quivei 

Where the pines make moan, 
By the forest river, 
Sleeps our babe alone ; 
England's field flowers may not deck his grave 
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave. 

Woods unknown receive him, 

'Midst the mighty wild ; 
Yet with God we leave him. 
Blessed, blessed child ! 
And our tears gush o'er his lovely du&t, 
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust. 

Though his eye hath brighten'd 

Oft our weary way. 
And his clear laugh lighten'd 
Half our hearts' dismay ; 
Still in hope we give back what was given, 
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven. 

And to her who bore him. 

Her who long must weep. 
Yet shall Heaven restore him 
From his pale, sweet sleep ! 
Those blue eyes of love and peace again ' 
Through her soul will shine, undimm''^ by nam 

WhciC the long reeds -quiver. 

Where the pines make moan 
Leave we by the river. 
Earth to earth alone ! 
God and Father ! may our journcymgs on 
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone ' 



360 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



From the exile's sorrow, 

From the wanderer's dread 

Of the night and morrow, 

Early, brightly tied; 

Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home 

Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam 

Now let thought behold him 

With his angel look 
Where those arms enfold him, 
Which benignly took 
srael's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast, 
When his voice their tender meekness blest. 

Turn thee now, fond mother. 

From thy dead, oh, tm-n ! 
Linger not, young brother. 
Here to dream and mourn : 
Only kneel once n.ore around the sod. 
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God ! 



EASTER-DAY 
IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCH-YARD. 



There is a wakening on the mighty hills, 
A kindling with the spirit of the morn ! 
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills, 
And a soft visionary hue is born 

On the young foliage, worn 
By all the embosom'd woods — a silvery green. 
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously se- 
rene. 

And lo ! where floating through a glory, sings 
The lark, alone, amidst a crystal sky ! 
Lo ! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, 
Aga uist a soft and rosy cloud on high. 

Trembles with melody ! 
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice 
To the rich laugh of music in that voice. 

But purer light than of the early sun 
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth ! 
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won 
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth 

By this glad morning's birth ! 
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed 
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's 

head. 

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye, 
O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows ; 
Gifts from the fount of immortality, 
■\Vbich, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes, 

Jjay hush'd in dark repose, 
nil thou, bright dayspring ! mad'st its waves our 

own, 
By thine unsealing of the burial-stone. 

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills. 

And let d full victorious tone be given, 

Sy rock and cavern, to the wind which fills 

y .'K urn-like depths with sound , The tomb is 



The radiant gate of Heaven 
Unfolded — and the stern, dark shadow cast 
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the eaxth's 
bosom past. 

And you, ye graves ! upon whose turf I stand, 
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead, 
Time with a soft and reconciling hand 
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 

O'er every narrow bed : 
But not by time, and not by nature sown 
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace 
hath grown. 

Christ hath arisen ! oh ! not one clieiish'd head 
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here 
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled 
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,) 

A hope, upspringing clear 
From those majestic tidings of the morn, 
Which lit the living way to all of woman boriu 

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love ! 
E'en on this greensward ; night hath heard thy 

cry, 
Heart-stricken one ! thy precious dust above, 
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply 

Unto thine agony ! 
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, 
Christ hath arisen, O love, thy tears shall all be 

dried. 

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, 
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb 
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years, 
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom, 

Mortality's thick gloom 
Hung o'er the sunny world, and wiili the breath 
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts 
of death. 

By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Feai 
Then, was the ideal robe of beauty wrought 
To veil tliat haunting shadow, still too near, 
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought, 
And where the board was fraugjit 
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower. 
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a 
power 

But that dark night is closed : and o'er the dead, 
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have 

blown. 
And where the mountain heath a couch has 

spread. 
And, settling oft on some gray-letter'd stone. 

The red-breast warbles lone ; 
And the wild bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass 
Like a low thrill of harp-strings through the grass. 



Here, 



'midst 
sleep. 



the chambers of the Christian's 



We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye. 
For hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep, 
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



301 



Si'L'in all one sanctuary 
Of holiest tliought — nor needs there fresh bright 

sod, 
Urn, wreath or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to 

God. 

Christ hath arisen ! — O mountain peaks ! attest, 
Witness, resounding- glen and torrent-wave, 
The immortal courage in t!ie hmnan breast 
Sprung from tiiat victor}^ — tell how oft the brave 

To camp 'midst rock and cave, 
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith 

have borne. 
Planting- the cross on high above the clouds of 



The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day — 
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone. 
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt 

to pray 
Rose up to arm! the pure, high snows have 

known 

A colouring not their own, 
But from true hearts which by tliat crimson stain 
Gave token cf a trust that call'd no suiFering 



Those days are past — the mountains Avear no 

more 
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood, 
And may that awful record, as of yore, 
Never again be known to field or flood ! 
E'en though the faithful stood, 
A noble army, in the exulting siglit 
Of earth and heaven, which blest their battle for 

the right ! 

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken 
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure ; 
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken ; 
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure 

Thus steadfastly endure, 
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower, 
Him, from v/hose rising stream'd that robe of 
spirit power. 

Glory to Him ! Hope to the suffering breast ! 
Light to the nations ! He hath roll'd away 
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest. 
Between the soul and Heaven's calm ether lay — 

His love hath made it day 
With those that sat in darkness. — Earth and sea ! 
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made 
free! 



THE CHILD READING THE piBLE. 

"A (lancing shape, an image gay, 
To Iiaunl, to startle, to waylay. 

***** 
A lieinj,' breathing thoughtful brcatii, 
A traveller between lite a[i(l death." 

Wordsworth. 



I SAW him at his sport crewhilc, 
The liriglit exulting bny, 

Z 3;i 



Like summer's lightning came the smile 

Of his young spirit's joy ; 
A flash that, wheresoe'er it broke, 
To life undreamt-of beauty woke. 

Plis fair locks waved m sunny play, 

By a clear fountain's side, 
Wliere jewel-colour'd pebbles lay 

Beneath the shallow tide ; 
And pearly spray at times would meet 
The glancing of his fairy feet. 

He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers 
Which drank that streamlet's dew ; 

He flung them o'er the wave in showers. 
Till, gazing, scarce I knew 

Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild 

The singing fount or laughing child. 

To look on all that joy and bloom 

Made earth one festal scene, 
Where the dull shadow of the tomb 

Seem'd as it ne'er had been. 
How could one image of decay. 
Steal o'er the dawn of sucli clear day 1 

I saw once more that aspect bright — 

The boy's meek head was bow'd 
In silence o'er the Book of Light, 

And like a golden cloud. 
The still cloud of a pictured sky — 
His locks droop'd round it lovingly. 

And if my heart had deem'd him fair, 

When in the fountain glade, 
A creature of the sky and air, 

Almost on wings he play'd ; 
Oh ! how much holier beauty now 
Lit the young human being's brow ! 

The being born to toil, to die. 

To break forth from the tomb, 
Unto far nobler destiny 

Than waits the sky-lark's plume ! 
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour. 
Win the first knowledge of his dower 

The soul, the awakening soul I saw. 

My watching eye could trace 
The shadows of its new-born awe, 

Sweeping o'er that fair face : 
As o'er a flower might pass tlie shade 
By some dread angel's pinion made ! 

The soul, the mother of deep fears, 

Of high hopes infinite. 
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, 

Of sleepless inner sight ; 
Lovely, but solemn, it arose. 
Unfolding what no more might close. 

The red-leaved tablets,* undefiled. 

As yet, by evil thought — 
Oh ! lil tie dream'd the brooding child. 

Of what witliin me wrought, 

*" All this, and moro than this, is now engraved jpon t?«> 
I rnd-haved tablets of my h''arl."--//(i.i/w(;orf 



While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd, 
And quiver'd to the eternal word. 

And reverently my spirit caught 

The reverence of his gaze ; 
A sight with dew of blessing fraught 

To hallow after-days ; 
To make the proud heart meekly wise, 
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes. 

It seem'd as if a temple rose 

Before me brightly there, 
And in the depths of its repose 

My soul o'erflow'd with prayer, 
Feeling a solemn presence nigh — 
The power of infant sanctity ! 

O Father '. mould my heart once more, 

By thy prevailing breath ! 
Teach me, oh ! teach me to adore 

E'en with that pure one's faith ; 
A faith, all made of love and light, 
Child-like, and, therefore, full of might ! 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 



Be mute who will, who can, 
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
la such a temple as we now behold, 
Reav'd for thy presence ; therefore am I bound 
To worship, here and everywhere. 

Wordsworth. 



Thk blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine 
eye, 
And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met 
And own'd thine image in the majesty 

Of their calm temple still ! — that never yet 
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight 
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That -low still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine. 

Touching death's features with a lovely glance 
Of ligat, serenely, solemnly divine. 

And lending to each hoj.y star a ray 

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

riiat I have heard thy voice, nor been afi-aid. 
In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountains 
old, 
And the low thrillings of the forest shade. 

And the wild sounds ot waters uncontroll'd, 
Ana upon many a desert plain and shore — 
No solitude — for there I felt thee more: 

I bless thee, O my God ! 



And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 

The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye, 
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meaniiiga 
spread, 
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 
Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free 
And pure — a consecration unto thee : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraugji 
With an awakening power — if thou hast made 
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of mj 
thought, 
And by the sv/ift winds bid them be convey'd 
To lands of other lays, and there become 
Native as early melodies of home: 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, 
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper in my song, hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne. 

Or but one hope, one prayer — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — that I have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearfiil springs, 

Yet, with a colouring halo from above. 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things 

Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, 

Still weaving links for intercourse with thee : 
I bless thee, O my God! 

That by the passion of its deep distress. 

And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer. 

And by the yearning of its tenderness. 

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine. 

Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine: 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, 
or dread, 
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken. 

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed; 
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire, 
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale, 

Each sound and token of the dying day ; 
Thou" leavest me not, though early life grows 
pale, 
I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving slu'oud 
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 

I bless thee, O my God! 

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn 
skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreanis, 
Be lovely still in my departing eves — 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



3G:k 



Ti^ not that fondly I would lino;er here, 
B'V* that thy foot-prints on its dust appear ; 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And tliat tlie tender sliadowing I behold, 
The tracery veining every leaf and flower, 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould. 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 

Tliat life's last roses to mj' thoughts can bring 

^ich visions of imperishable spring : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Yes ! tlie young vernal voices in the skies 
Woo me not back, but, wandermg past mine 
ear, 
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies; 

The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear; 
The full of sonl, yet passionate no more — 
Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now aid, sustain me still ! — to thee I come 



In glowing life upsprang : — Vassal and chief, 
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-pcal. 
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air. 
Like tlie wild huntsman's band. And still they 

live, 
To those fair scenes imperishably bound, 
And, from the mountain mist still flashing ny, 
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there 
To the seer's voice : phantoms of colour'd thought, 
Surviving him who raised. — O eloquence ! 
O power, whose breathings thus could wake tlie 

dead ! 
Who shall wake thee 1 lord of the buried past I 
And art thou there — to those dim nations join'd, 
Thy subject host so long ? — the wand is dropp'd, 
The bright lamp broken which the gifl;ed hand 
Touch'd and the genii came ! — Sing reverently 
The funeral chant ! — The mighty is borne home — 
And who shall be his mourners ? — Youth and age, 
For each hath felt his magic — love and grief. 
For he hath communed with the heart of each ; 
Yes — the free spirit of humanity 



Make thou my dwelling where thy children May join the august procession, for to him 



And for the hope of that immortal home^ 

And for thy Son, the bright and moriimg star. 
The sufferer and the victor-king of death, 
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



Many an eye 
May wail the dimming of our shining star. 

Shakspeare. 



A GLORIOUS voice hath ceased ! 
Mournfully, reverently — the funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! — There is a dreamy sound, 
A hollow murmur of the dying year. 
In the deep woods : — Let it be wild and sad ! 
A more iEolian melancholy tone 
Than ever Avail'd o'er bright things perishing ! 
For that is passing from the darken'd land. 
Which the green summer will not bring us back — 
Though all her songs return. — The funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! — They bear the mighty forth. 
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind — 
They bear him through the household paths, the 

groves. 
Where every tree had music of its own 
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love- 
Arid he is silent! — Pest the living stream 
They bear him now ; the stream, whose kindly 

voice 
<)n alien shores his true heart bum'd to hear — 
And he is silent. O'er the heathery hills. 
Which his own soul had mantled with a light 
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move — 
And he is silent I — he, whose flexile lips 
Were but unseal'd, and, lo ! a thousand forms, 
From i!very pastoral glen and fern-clad height, 



Its mysteries have been tributary things. 
And all its accents known : — From field or wave. 
Never was conqueror on his battle bier. 
By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum 
And the proud drooping of the crested head. 
More nobly follow'd home. — The last abode. 
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd : 
A still majestic spot ! girt solemnly 
With all th' imploring beauty of decay : 
A stately couch 'midst ruins ! meet for him 
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king 
Of other daj's, laid lonely with his sword 
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant 
O'er the honour'd grave ! — the grave ! — oh, say 
Rather the shrine ! — an altar for the love. 
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths 
Of years unborn — a place where leaf and flower 
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead, 
Shall be made holy things — where every weed 
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift 
From bui'ied glory breathed. And now, wha! 

strain. 
Making victorious melody ascend 
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb 
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid— 
The crown'd of men ? 

A lowly, lowly songr 

Lowly and solemn be 
Thy children's cry to thee. 

Father divine 1 
A hymn of suppliant breath. 
Owning that life and death 

Alike are thine I 

A spirit on its wa^ , 
Sceptred the earth to sway, 

From thee was sent : 
Now call'st thou bacis thine own 
Hence is that radiance flown — 

To earth but lent. 

Watching in breathless awe. 
The bright head bow'd we saw 



364 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Beneath thy hand ! 
Fill'd by one hope, one fear, 
Now o'er a brother's bier, 

Weeping- we stand. 

How hath he pass'd ! — the lord 
Of each deep bosom chord, 

To meet thy sight, 
Unmantled and alone, 
On thy blest mercy thrown, 

O Infinite ! 

So, from his harvest home. 
Must the tired peasant come : 

So, in one trust, 
Leader and king must yield 
The naked soul, reveal'd 

To thee. All Just ! 

The sword of many a fight — 
What then shall be its miglit ? 

The lofty lay. 
That rush'd on eagle wing — 
What shall its memory bring ? 

What liope, what stay ? 

O Father ! in that hour. 

When earth all succouring power 

Shall disavow; 
When spear, and field and crown, 
In faintness are cast down — 

Sustain us. Thou ! 

By Him who bow'd to take 
The death-cup for our sake, 

The thorn, the rod ; 
From whom the last dismay 
Was not to pass away — 

Aid us, O God \ 

Tremblers beside the grave, 
We call on thee to save, 

Father, divine ! 
Hear, hear our suppliant breath, 
Keep us, in life and death, 

Thine, only thine I 



THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Suggested by a picture of Corregio's. 



In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd, 

The daughter of Jerusalem ; alone, 

With all the still small whispers of the night. 

And with the searching glances of the stars, 

And vii-ith her God, oJone : — she lifted up 

Her sweet, sad voice, and trembling o'er her head. 

The dark leave* thrill'd with prayer — the tearful 

prayer 
Of woman s quenchless, yet repentant love. 

Father of Spirits, hear ! 
Look on the inmost heart to be reveal'd. 
Look on the fountain of the burning tear, 
Hetore thy sight in solitude unseal'd ! 



Hear, Father ! hear and aid ! 
If I have loved too well, if I have shed. 
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head. 
Gifts on thy shrine, my God ! more fitly laid. 

• If I have sought to live 
But in one light, and made a human eye 
The lonely star of mine idolatry. 
Thou that art Love ! oh ! pity and forgive ! 

Chasten'd and school'd at last. 
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns. 
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship tvjns— 
What have I said ? — the deep dream is not past I 

Yet hear ! if still I love. 
Oh ! still too fondly — if, for ever seen. 
An earthly image comes, my heart between. 
And thy calm glory. Father ! throned above ! 

If still a voice is near, 
(E'en while I strive tiiese wanderings to control,) 
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul 
With its deep music, too intensely dear. 

Father, draw, to thee 

My lost aflfections back ! — the dreaming eyes 
Clear frftm their mist — sustain the heart that dies, 
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free ! 

1 must love on, O God ! 

This bosom must love on ! but let thy breath 
Touch and make pure the flame that knows no 

death. 
Bearing it up to Heaven ! — Love's own abode I 

Ages and ages pass'd, the wilderness. 
With its dark cedars and the thrilling night. 
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds. 
That waft all sound, were conscious of those 

prayers. 
How many such hath woman's bursting heart 
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed. 
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God ? 



PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.* 

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 



From their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palm 
Of all the mighty, willier'd and consumed ; 
Nov is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own. 

TVordsworlh. 



Scene — Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, 
during the Reign of Terror, 

D'Aubigne, an aged Royalist — Blanche, his 
Daughter, a young girl. 

Blanche. What was our doom, my father ? — In 
thine arms 
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. 



* The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Siilery 
and La Source, so affectingly described by IJelen Maria Wil- 
liams, in her letters from France, gave rise to this iirtle scene 
These two victims had composfd a simple hymn, which they 
every night sung together in a low and restrained voice. 



Tell me the sentence ! — could our judg-cs look, 
Without relenting, on thy silvery Imir ? 
Was tliere i.ot mercy, father? — Will they not 
/Restore us to our home. 

D'Atdiiirnt. Yes, my poor child ! 

They send us home. 

Blanche. Oh ! shall we gaze again 

On the bright Loire ? — Will the old hamlet spire 
And the gray turret of our own cJiateau, 
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms ? 
Will tlie kind voices of our villagers. 
The loving laughter in their cliildren's eyes, 
Welcome us back at last ? — But how is this ? — 
Father ! thy glance is clouded — on thy brow 
There sits no joy ! 

D'' Aubigni. Upon my brow, dear girl, 
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace 
As may befit the Ciiristian, who receives 
And recognizes, in submissive awe, 
The summons of his God. 

Blanche. Thou dost not mean — 

No, no I it cannot be ! — Didst thou not say 
They send us home 1 

D'Auhigne. Where is the spirit's home ? — 
Oh ! most of all, in these dark evil days. 
Where should it be ? — but in that world serene. 
Beyond the sword's reach, and tlie tempest's 

power — 
Where, but in Heaven ? 

Blanche. My Father ! 

D' Aubigni. We must die. 

We must look up to God, and calmly die. — 
Come to my heart, and weep there ! for awhile — 
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise 
In the still courage of a woman's heart ! 
Do I not know thee ? — Do I ask too much 
From mine own noble Blanche ? 

Blanche, {falling on his bosom.) Oh ! clasp 
me fast ! 
Thy trembling child! — Hide, hide me in thine 

arms- 
Father ! 

D' Aubigni. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young 
to go — 
Young, and so fair ! — Yet were it worse methinks, 
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave. 
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, 
And they that loved their God, have all been 

swept. 
Like the sere leaves, away. — For them no hearth 
Through the wide land was left inviolate. 
No altar holy ; therefore did they fall. 
Rejoicing to depart. — The soil is steep'd 
In noble blood ! the temples are gone down; 
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully 
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt. — Why, who would 

live? 
Who hatli not panted as a dove, to flee. 
To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil, 
The burden'd air ? — Our God upon the cross — 
Our king upon the scaffold* — let us think 



*A French royalint offioer, dyin? upon a finld of battle, and 
Hearing some one near him utturlns! tliu most phiinlivo Inment- 
taiions, turned towards thti suft'erur, and thns addressed him : 
'My fr<«nfi, whoever you may he, ruinemher that your God 
expuod upon the cross— your kin^ upon llio sculFold — and he 
3.S* 



Of these — and fold endurance to our hearts, 
And bravely die ! 

Blanche. A dark and fearful way I 

An evil doom for tliy dear honour'd head ! 
Oh ! thou, tlie kind, tlic gracious I — wliom all eyes 
Bless'd as they look'd upon ! — Speak yet again — 
Sa)r, will they part us ? 

D'' Aubigni. No, my Blanche ; in death 

We shall not be divided. 

Blanche. Thanks to God 1 

He, by thy glance, will aid me — I shall see 
His liglit before me to the last — And when — 
Oh ! pardon these weak shrir kings of thy child — 
When shall the hour befall ? 

D' Aubigni. Oh ! swiftly now, 

And suddenly, with brief dread interval. 
Comes down the mortal stroke. — But of that hoiu 
As yet I know not. — Each low throbbing pulse 
Of the quick pendulum may usher in 
Eternity ! 

Blanche, {kneeling before him.) My father ! lay 
thy hand 
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again 
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness. 
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul, 
Ere we are call'd. 

D^ Aubigni. If I may speak through tears ! — 
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently. 
Child of my heart I — thou who dost look on me 
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love ! 
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path, 
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul, 
A stainless lily in my widow'd house. 
There springing up — with soft light round thee 

shed — 
For immortality !— Meek child of God ! 
I bless thee — He will bless thee I — In his love 
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world 
To thy Redeemer's breast. — And thou wilt die ! 
As thou hast lived — my duteous, holy Blanche ! 
In trusting and serene submissiveness. 
Humble, yet full of Heaven. 

Blanche, {rising.) Now is there strength 

Infused through all my spirit. — I can rise 
And say, " Thy will be done." 

D'' Aubigni, {pointing upwards.) See'st thou, 
my child. 
Yon faint light in the west ? The signal star 
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in 
Through the close dungeon grating I Mournfull.y 
It seems to quiver ; yet shall this nig' t pass, 
Tliis night alone, without the lifted veice 
Of adoration in our narrow cell. 
As if unworthy Fear or wavering Faitli 
Silenced the strain ? — No ! let it wall io Heaven 
The prayer, the hope of poor mortality. 
In its dark hour once more I — And we wi'! sleep — 
Yes — calmly sleep, when our last rite is rlcsed. 
[ They sing I jgetner 

Prisoners' evening hvmn. 

We see no more in thy pure skies. 
How soft, O God ! the sunset dies : 

who now speaks to you has had iiis limbs sliot from » . lew Aim 
Meet youi- fate as becomes o mai).' 



SilK 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



How every colour'd hill and wood 
Seems melting in the golden flood : 
Yet, by the precious memories won 
From bright hours now for ever gone, 
Father 1 o'er all thy works, we know, 
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow ; 
Still touching every cloud and tree 
With glory, eloquent of Thee ; 
Still feeding all tliy flowers with light, 
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight. 

We know Thou reign'st, tlie Unchanging One, 

th' All Just ! 
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust ! 

We read no more, O God ! thy ways 

On earth, in these wild evil days, 

The red sword in th' oppressor's hand 

Is ruler of the weeping land ; 

Fallen are the faithful and the pure, 

No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. 

Yet, by the deep voice from the past, 

Which tells us these things cannot last — 

And by the hope which finds no ark. 

Save in thy breast, wlien storms grow dark — 

We trust thee ! — As the sailor knows 

That in its place of briglit repose 

His pole-star burns, tliough mist and cloud 

May veil it with a midnight shroud. 

We know thou reign'st ! — All Holy One, All Just ! 

And bless thee still v/ith love's own boundless 
trust. 

We feel no mort. that aid is nigh, 

When our faint hearts within us die. 

We suffer — and we know our doom 

Must be one suflering till the tomb. 

Yet, by the anguish of thy Son 

When his last hour came darkly on — 

By his dread cry, the air which rent 

In terror of abandonment — 

And by his parting word, which rose 

Through faith victorious o'er all woes — 

We know that Thou mayst wound, mayst 

break 
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake ! 
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn. 
In our deep meed to Thee we turn ! 

!'o whom but Thee?— All Merciful, all Just ! 

1 a life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust. 



PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY. 



The land shall never rue. 
So Lngland to herself do prove but true. 

Shakspeare. 

Through evening's bright repose 
A voice of prayer arose, 

When the sea-fight was done : 
The sons of England knelt, 
With hearts that now could melt, 
for on the wave her battle had been won. 



Round their tall ship, the main 
Heaved with a dark red stain, 

Caught not from sunset's cloud : 
While with the tide swept past 
Pennon and shiver'd mast. 
Which to the Ocean-Queen that day had bow'a 

But free and fair on high, 
A native of the sky. 

Her streamer met the breeze , 
It flow'd o'er fearless rhen. 
Though hush'd and child-like then. 
Before their God they gather'd on the seas. 

Oh I did not thoughts of home 
O'er each bold spirit come 

As from the land, sweet gales ' 
In every word of prayer 
Hath not some hearth a share. 
Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales ? 

Yes ! bright green spots that lay 
In beauty far away. 

Hearing no billows rou'; 
Safer from touch of spoil, 
For that day's fiery toil, 
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'j 
o'er. 

A solemn scene, and dread ! 

The victors and the dead, , . 

The breathless burning sky ! 
And, passing with the race 
Of waves, that keep no trace. 
The wild, brief sounds of human victory I 

A stern, yet holy scene ! 
Billows where strife hatli been, 

Sinking to awful sleep: 
And words that breathe the sense 
Of God's omnipotence. 
Making a minster of that silent deep. 

Borne through such hours afar. 
Thy flag hath been a star, 

Where eagle's wing ne'er flew: — 
England ! the unprofaned, 
Those of the hearths unstain'd. 
Oh ! to the banner and the shrine be true ' 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY 



Father of Heaven and Earth I 
I bless thee for the night. 
The soft, still night! 
The holy pause of care and mirth. 
Of sound and light ! 

Now far m glade and dell, 
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell. 
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest- 
The bee's long murmuring toils are done. 
And I, the o'erwearied one. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



367 



crwcaricd and o'crwrouglit, 

Bless tlicc, O God, O Father oi' the oppress'd, 
With my last waking thought, 
In the still night ! 

Yes, ore I sing to rest. 

By the fire's dying liglit. 

Thou Lord of Earth and Heaven ! 

1 bl"ss thee, who hast given 

{.Into life's fainting travellers, t\\e night, 
The soft, still, holy night ! 



THE INDIAN'S REVENGE. 

BCENE JN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONAKY.* 



But by my wrongs and by my wrath, 
To-mcrrow Areouski's breath 
That fires yon Heaven with storms of death, 
Shall guide me to the foe ! 

Indian Song in " Gertrude of Wyoming 



Scene — The shore of a Lake surrounded hj deep 
woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, over- 
shadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herr- 
mann, the missionary, seated alone before the 
cabin. The hour is evening twilight. 

Herrmann. Was that the light from some 
lone swifl canoe 
Shooting across the waters ? — No, a flash 
Frotn tlie night's first quick fire-fly, lost again 
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark 
Is on the wave ; no rustle of a breeze 
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange 

world, 
Oh ! how mysterious, how eternal, seems 
The mighty melancholy of the woods ! 
The desert's own great spirit, infinite ! 
Little they know, in mine own father-land, 
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst 
The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades 
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know 
Of what is solitude ! In hours like this, 
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage 

hearths 
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices. 
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily, 
On the home path ; while roimd his lowly porch. 
With eager eyes awaiting his return. 
The cluster'd faces of his children shine 
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts ! 
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope 
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God ! 
Draw me still nearer, closer imto thee, 
Till all the hollow of these deep desires 
May with thyself be fill'd ! — Be it enough 
At once to gladden and to solemnize 
My lonely life, if for thine altar here 
In this dread temple of the wilderness, 
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win 



'Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is 
Founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian 
Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch. 



The offering of one heart, one human heart, 
Bleeding, repenting, loving ! 

Hark ! a step. 
An Indian tread ! I know the stealthy soimd — 
'T is on some quest of evil, through the grass 
Gliding so serpent-like. 

{He comes forward, and meets an Indian 
warrior armed. 

Enonio, is it thou ? I see thy form 
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mino 

eye 
Discerns thy face. 

Enonio. My father spealis my name. 

Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the 
chase return'd ? 
The night-fires lit ? Why is my son abroad ? 
Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler 
prey 
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave 
The lone path free. 

Herrmann. The forest way is long 

From the red chieflain's home. Rest thee awhile 
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak 
Of these things further. 

Enonio. Tell me not of rest ! 

My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift. — ■ 
I must begone. 
Herrmann, {solemnly.) No, warrior, thou must 
stay ! 
The Mighty One hath given me power to search 
Thy soul with piercing words — and thou must 

stay. 
And hear me, and give answer ! If thy heart 
Be grown thus restless, is it not because 
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up 
Some burning thought of ill ? — 

Enonio, {with sudden impetuosity.) How should 
I rest ? — 
Last night the spirit of my brother came. 
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak, 
And said, ^'■Avenge me!" — In the clouds this 

morn, 
I saw the frowning colour of his blood — 
And that, too, had a voice. — I lay at noon 
Alone beside the sounding waterfall. 
And through its thunder-music spake a tone — 
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves — 
And said, " Avenge me .'" — Therefore have I 

raised 
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again. 
That I may send the shadow from my couch. 
And take the strange sound from the cataract, 
And sleep once more. 

Herrmann. A better patJi, my son. 

Unto the still and dewy land of sleep. 
My hand in peace can guide thee — e'en the way 
Thy dying brother trod. — Say, didst thou love 
That lost one well? 

Enonio. Know'st thou not we grew up 

Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness ? 
Unto the chase we journey'd in one path , 
We stemm'd the lake in one canoe ; we lav 
Beneath one oak to rest. — When fever hui;j; 
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand 
Was still beneath my jicad; mv brother s rcbn 



<L- 



3&e 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Covcr'd my bosoin from the chill night air. 
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love, 
Until he turn'd him from his father's gods, 
And then my soul fell from him — then the grass 
Grew in the way between our parted homes. 
And wheresoe'er I wander'd, then it seem'd 
That dll the woods were silent. — I went forth — 
I journey'd, with my lonely heart, afar, 
And so return'd — and where was he ? — the earth 
Own'd him no more. 

Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then. 

Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe, 
And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee 
1 o the one God. 

Enonio. Yes, I have learn'd to pray 

With my white father's words, yet all the more 
My heart, that shut against my brother's love, 
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire. 
Burning my sleep away. — In the night hush, 
'Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy 

things 
Ot the great forests, I have call'd aloud, 
"Brother ! forgive, forgive !" — He answer'd not- 
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls, 
Cries but " Avenge me .'" — And I go forth now 
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes 
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore, 
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say, 
"I have avenged thee." 

Herrmann. Oh ! that human love 

Should be the root of this dread bitterness, 
Till heaven through all the fever'd being pours 
Transmuting balsam ! — Stay, Enonio, stay ! 
Thy brother calls thee not ! — The spirit M^orld, 
Where the departed go, sends back to earth 
No visitants for evil. — 'T is the might 
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief 
At work in thine own breast, which lends the 

voice 
Unto the forest and the cataract, 
The angry colour to the clouds of morn, 
The shadow to the moonlight. — Stay, my son ! 
Thy brother is at peace. — Beside his couch. 
When of the murderer's poison'd shaft he died, 
I knelt and pray'd ; he named his Saviour's name, 
Meekly, beseechingly ; he spoke of thee 
In pity and in love. 

Enonio, {hurriedly.) Did he not say 
My arrow should avenge him ? 

Herrmann. His last words 

Were all forgiveness. 

Enonio. What ! and shall the man 

Wlio pierced him with the shaft of treachery, 
Walk fearless forth in joy ? 

Herrmann. Was he not once 

Thy brother's friend ? — Oh ! trust me, not in joy 
He ^^ alks the frowning forest. Did keen love. 
Too late repentant of its heart estranged. 
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train 
Of sounds and shadows — and shall he escape ? 
Enon'o, dream it not ! — Our God, the All Just, 
Uutc himself reserves this royalty — 
I'ne secret chastening of the guilty heart, 
Tiie fiery touch, the scourge that purifies, 
Le:i,ve \^ vvith him ! — Yet make it no' thy hope — 



For that strong heart of thine — oh ! listen yet — 
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish 
For death or torture to the guilty one, 
Ere it can sleep again. 

Enonio. My father speaks 

Of change, for man too mighty. 

Herrmann. I but speak 

Of that which hath been, and again must be. 
If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life 
Of the bright country, where, I well believe, 
His soul rejoices. — He had known such change 
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe oiice named 
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart. 
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words 
Which, from the Saviour's cross, went up to 

heaven — 
" Forgive them, for they know not what they do. 
Father, forgive .'" — And o'er the eternal bounds 
Of that celestial kingdom, undetiled, 
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem, 
Hath to his Master pass'd. — He waits thee there — 
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the 

grave. 
Immortal in its holiness. — He calls 
His brother to the land of golden liglit 
And ever-living fountains — couldst thou hear 
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say, 
" My brother ! oh ! be pure, be merciful ! 
That we may meet again." 

Enonio, {hesitating.) Can I return 

Unto my tribe, and unavenged ? 

Herrmann, To Him, 

To Him return, from whom thine erring steps 
Have wander'd far and long ! — Return, my son, 
To thy Redeemer ! — died he not in love — 
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God- 
Breathing forgiveness 'midst all agonies. 
And we, dare we be ruthless ? — By His aid 
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place 
'Midst the pure spirits.— Oh ! retrace the way 
Back to thy Saviour ! he rejects no heart 
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears 
Be o'er them shower'd. — Ay, weep, thou Indian 

chief! 
For by the kindling moonlig-ht, I behold 
Thy proud lip's working — weep, relieve thy soul ! 
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour 
Of its great conflict. 

Enonio, {giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) 
Father, take the bow. 
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call 
Forth to the chase once more. — And let me dwell 
A little while, my father ! hy thy side. 
That I may hear the blessed words again — 
Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills — 
From thy true lips flow forth ; for in my heart 
The music and the memory of their sound 
Too long have died away. 

Herrmann. O, welcome back. 

Friend, rescued one ! — Yes, thou shalt be my guesi, 
And we will pray beneath my sycamore 
Together, morn and eve ; and I will spread 
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last — 
After the visiting of holy thoughts — 
With dewy wing shall sink upon fliine eyes — 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



3G3 



Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back 
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again ! 

[niey go into the cabin together — Herr- 
mann, lingering for a moment on the 
threshold, looks up to the starry skies. 

Father ! that from amidst yon glorious worlds 

Now look'st on us, thy children ! make this hour 

Blessed for ever ! May it see the birth 

Of thine own image in tlie unfatliom'd deep 

Of an immortal soul ; — a thing to name 

\Vith reverential thought, a solemn world ! 

To Thee more precious than those thousand stars 

Burning on high in thy majestic Heaven ! 



THE DAY OF FLOWERS. 

A mother's walk with her child. 



One spirit — His 
Who wore tlie platted thorn with bleeding brows. 
Rules universal nature. — Not a flower 
But shows some touch, in Freckle, freak, or stain, 
Of his unrivali'd pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 
And bathes their eyes with nectar. — 
Happy who walks with him. 

Cowper. 



Come to the woods, my boy ! 
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth, 
M/ happy child ! The spirit of bright hours 
Wooes us in every wind ; fresh wild-leaf scents 
From tltickcts where the lonely stock-dove broods. 
Enter our luttice ; fitful songs of joy 
Float in with each soft current of the air; 
And we will hear their summons; we will give 
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad 

thoughts. 
And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth. 
And, for thy mother, twine wild wreaths; while 

she 
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart 
The vernal ecstasy of childhood back : — 
Come to the woods, my boy ! 
What! wouldst thou lead already to the path 
Along the copsewood brook? Come then ! in truth 
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child. 
Is a glad singing stream, heard, or imheard. 
Singing its melody of happiness 
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace 
To that sweet cliime. — Witli what a sparkling life 
It fills the shadowy dingle ! now the wing 
Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright 

spray 
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave ; 
Vow, from some pool of crystal darkness deep. 
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam, 
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings 
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow fide 
Seem, as tliey glance, to scatter s^iarks of light 
From l)urnish'd films ! And mark yon silvery line 
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung 
Across tiie narrow current, from the tuft 
Of liazcis to the J)oary poplar's bough ! 
See, in the air'« transparence, how it waves. 



Quivering and glistening with each i'aintest gale, 
Yet breaking not — a bridge for iiiiry siiapcs, 
How delicate, how wondrous ! 

Yes ! my boy ! 
Well may we take the stream's bright winding 

vein 
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream 
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness. 
For ever decpenii^g. O, forget him not, 
Dear child ! that airy gladness which thou fcel'sf 
Wafting thf e after bird and butterfly, 
As 't were a breeze within thee, is not less 
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours, 
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all 
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones 
With smnmer glory. Stay thy bounding step, 
My merry wanderer ! let us rest awhile 
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung 
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast, 
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb 
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not 
E'en melting to a more transparent glow 
In that pure glass ? Oh ! beautiful are streams ', 
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved 
Their music, still accordant with each mood 
Of sadness or of joy. And love hatli grown 
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace 
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still 
Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount 
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take 
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which blessM 
The river Deities or fountain Nymphs 
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade. 
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme, 
The all-sustaining, ever-present God, 
Who dower'd the soul with iinmortality. 
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth 
Its fleeting passage ; therefore let us greet 
Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him, 
Each bird-note, quivering 'midst light summer 

leaves. 
And every rich celestial tint unnamed. 
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and 

eve 
Kindle and melt away ! 

And now, in love. 
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend 
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers 
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy, 
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn 
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee 
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought — 
No colouring from the past. This way our path 
Winds through the hazels ; — mark how brightly 

shoots 
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line. 
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life, 
Tlie life of song, and breezes, and fixe wings-. 
Is all the murnmring shade ! and thine, O ihinf 
Of all the brightest and the happiest liere, 
My blessed child ! 7ny gift of God ! that nuk'st 
My heai-t o'erflow with summer I 

Hast thou twinea 
Thy wreath so soon ! yet will we loiter not. 
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously 
Round the brown twisted roots of von scathed naa 



370 



MRS. HERIANS' WORKS. 



The heath-flower spread its purple. We must 

leave 
The copse, and through yon broken avenue, 
Sliadow'd by drooping vv^alnut foliage, reach 
The rain's glade. 

And, lo ! before us, fair, 
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day. 
It stands, that house of silence ! wedded now 
To verdant nature by the o'ermaritling growth 
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands 
Once loved to train. How the rich wall-flower 

scent 
From every niche and mossy cornice floats. 
Embalming its decay ! the bee alone 
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more 
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, 
Watching some homeward footstep. See ! un- 
bound 
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick 

wreaths 
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, 
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and 

load 
The air with mournful fragrance, for it speaks 
Of life gone hence ; and the faint southern breath 
Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch, 
Startles the soul with sweetness ! yet rich knots 
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown 
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around 
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy, 
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here 
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent ! 
And, under arches of wild eglantine. 
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems 
The frail gumcistus o'er the turf to snow 
Its pearly flower-leaves dov/n ! — Go, happy boy ! 
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets. 
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone, 
Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned, 
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave aromid 
Their many-tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass, 
Bedded like jewels. 

He hath bounded on, 
Wild with delight ! — The crimson on his cheek 
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies 
In this deep-hearted rose-cup ! — Bright moss-rose ! 
Though not so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree ! 
Once tliou wert cherish'd ! and, by human love. 
Through many a summer duly visited 
For tliy bloom-offerings, which, o'er festal board, 
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch 
Of long secluded sickness, may have shed 
A joy, now lost. 

Yet shall there still be joy, 
Where God hatii pour'd forth beaut}', and the voice 
Of human love shall still be heard in praise 
Over his glorious gifts ! — O Father, Lord! 
The All-Beneficent ! I bless thy name, 
That thou hast mantled the green earth with 

flowers, 
Linking our hearts to nature ! By the love 
Of their wild blossoms, oiu* young footsteps first 
Into her deep recesses are beguiled. 
Her minster cells ; dark glen and forest bower, 
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee. 
Amidst the low religious whisperings 



And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude 
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made 
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, 
Thou callest us from city throngs and cares, 
Back to the wopds, the birds, the mountain 

streams. 
That sing of Thee ! back to free childhood's heart 
Fresh with the dews of tenderness I — Thou bidd's' 
The lilies of the field witli placid smile 
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse 
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life. 
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left 
His purer nature, with its fine desires, 
Uncared for in this universe of thine ! 
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved 
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams 
With spiritual light, and made a source 
Of heaven- ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age 
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss : — The old man's eye 
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul 
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully 
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs 
From dust to splendour ; as the mortal seed 
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up 
To put on glory, to be girt with power, 
And fill'd with immortality. Receive 
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, 
And, most of all, their heavenward influences, 
O Thou that gav'st us flowers ! 

Return, my boy, 
With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return! 
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd 
And glorified the ruin ! glow-worm light 
Will twinkle on the dew-drops, ere we reach 
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet 

prayer 
At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks 
Unto our Father in his Heaven arise, 
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed 
O'er one rich day of flowers ! 



HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD 
ON HIS RETURN. 

IN THE OLDEN TIMK. 



Joy! the lost one is restored! 
Sunshine comes to hearth and board, 
From the far-off" countries old 
Of the diamond and red gold : 
From the dusky archer bands. 
Reamers of the fiery sands ; 
From tlie desert winds, whose breath 
Smites with sudden silent death ; 
He hath reach'd his home again, 

Where we sing 
In thy praise a fervent strain, 

God our King! 

Mightiest ! unto Thee he turn'd. 
When the noon-day fiercest burn'd ; 
When the fountain springs were far, 
And the sounds of Arab wax 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



371 



SwcU'd upon the sultry blast, 
And till' sandy eolunms past, 
Unto Thcc lie cried ! and Thou, 
Mercilhl ! didst hear his vow ! 
Thcrclbre unto Thcc again 

Joy shall sing, 
Many a sweet and tliankful strain, 

God our Khig ! 

Thou wcrt \vith him on the main. 
And the snowy mountain-chain, 
And the rivers, dark and wide. 
Which through Indian forests glide, 
Thou didst guard him from the wrath 
Of tlie lion in his path, 
And the arrows on the breeze, 
And the dropping poison-trees ; 
Therefore from our household train 

Oft shall spring 
Unto Thee a blessing strain, 

God our King ! 

Thou to his lone watching wife 
Hast brought bacli the light of life ! 
Thou hast spared his loving child 
Home to greet him from the wild. 
Though the sons of eastern skies 
On his cheek have set their dyes, 
Though long toils and sleepless cares 
On his brow have blancli'd the hairs, 
Yet the night of fear is flown. 
He is living and our own ! — 
Brethren ! spread his festal board, 
Hang his mantle and his sword 
With the armour on the wall. 
While this long, long silent hall 
Joyfully doth hear again 

Voice and string 
Swell to Tliee the exulting strain, 

God our Kinff ! 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 



May sit undimm'd ! a gladness rest his own. 

Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 

Sucli as from childhood's morning land of dreams, 

Rcmember'd faintly, gleams. 
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown '. 

So let him walk with Thee, 

Made by Thy spirit free ; 
And when thou call'st him from his mortal place 
To his last hour be still that sweetness given, 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part. 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Saviour's face ! 



THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.* 



Clasp me a little longer on the brink 

Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress; 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh ! think, 

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, 

That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 

And friend to more than human friendship just — 

Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness. 

And by the hope of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs when 1 am laid in dust! 

Campbell. 



Blessings, O Father, shower ! 
Father of mercies ! round his precious head ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour. 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed, 

Blessings be shed ! 

Father ! I pray Thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved. 
Fame, fortune, power; — oh ! be his spirit proved 
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will ! 
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot, 
Guarding liis inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove-pinion still ! 

Let such a sense of Thee, 
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, 
His bosom guest inalienably be. 

That whercsoc'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 



The scene is in an Evglish cottage. The lattice 
opens upon a landscape at sunset. . > 

Eugene — Teresa. 

Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, 

beloved, 
Thine eyes, that make the day-spring in my 

heart. 
Are clear and still once more ! — wilt thou look 

forth ? 
Now, while the sunset, with low-streaming light — 
The light thou lovest — hath made the elm-wood 

stems 
All burning bronze, the river molten gold ! 
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet 
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and 

sounds ? 
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more 
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest 
With om* own evening hj'mn ? 

Eugene. Not now, deai lovfc, 

My soul is wakefiil — lingering to look forth. 
Not on the sun, but thee ? — Doth the light sleep 
On the stream tenderly? — and are the stems 
Of our own elm trees, by its alchemy. 
So richly changed ? and is the sweet-brier scent 
Floating around ? — But I have said farewell, 
'Farewell to earth, Teresa ! — not to thee ; 
Nor yet to our deep lore, nor yet awhile 
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows 
Back on my soul in mastery. — One last worlc i 
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts, 
Clinging affections, and undying hopes. 
All, all in that memorial ! 



* Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the paintei 
BlaUe, which is beautifully related by Allan L^unnintihara 



i'2 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Teresa. Oh, what dream 

Is this, inme own Eugene? — Waste thou not thus 
Thy scarce returning strength; keep thy rich 

thoughts 
For happier days ! they will not melt away 
liike passing music from the lute — dear friend! 
Dearest of triends ! thou canst win back at will 
TJie glorious visions. 

Eugene. Yes! the unseen land 

Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice 
To call me hence. — Oh ! be thou not deceived ! 
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa ! 
I must, must leave thee ! — Yet be strong, my love. 
As thou hast still been gentle. 

Teresa. O Eugene ! 

What will this dim world be to me, Eugene ! 
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all? 
My only sunshine ! — How can I bear on ? 
How can we part? We that have loved so well, 
With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief, 
By tearS; by prayer ? 

Eugene. E'en therefore we can part 

With an immortal trust that such high love 
Is not of things to perish. 

Let me leave 
One record still of its ethereal flame 
Brightening through death's cold shadow. Once 

again, 
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast. 
And eyes half veil'd, in thine own soul absorb'd 
As in thy watchings, ere I sink to sleep ; 
And I will give the bending flower-like grace 
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned 
On tliat pale brow, and in that quivering smile 
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast 
Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head 
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness. 
And lowly thought — even thus — my own Teresa ! 
Oh ! the quick glancing radiance and bright 

bloom 
That once around thee hung, have melted now 
Into more solemn light — but holier far, 
And dearer and yet lovelier in mine eyes. 
Than all tliat summer flush ! For by my couch, 
In patient and serene dovotedness, 
Th'ou Jiast made those rich hues and sunny smiles 
Tliine offering unto me. Oh ! I may give 
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow, 
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye, 
Unto the canvas ; — I may catch the flow 
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify 
With a soft halo what is imaged thus — 
But how much rests unbrcathed ! my faithful one, 
What thou hast been to me 1 This bitter world. 
This cold unanswering wc-^d, that hath no voice 
To greet the gentle spirit that drives back 
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here 
A little while — how have I turn'd away " 

From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart 
Found ever the sweet fountain of response, 
To quench my thirst for home ! 

The dear work grows 
Heneatn my hand, — the last ! 

Teresa, (Jailing on his neck in tears.) 

Eugene, Eugene ! 

Bnidk not my heart with thine excess of love ! — 



Oh ! must I lose thee — thou that hast been still 
The tenderest — best — 

Eugene. Weep, weep not thus, beloved ! 
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its powe 
Of soothing to the last ! — Mine own Teresa ! 
Take strength from strong affection! — Let our 

souls. 
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain 
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon — 
Our perfect love ! — Oh ! blessed have we been 
In that high gift ! Thousands o'er earth may pass 
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew. 
Which hath kept ours from withering. — Kneel, 

true wife ! 
And lay thy hands in mine. — 

[She kneels beside the couch ; he prayt, 
O, thus receive 
Thy children's thanks. Creator ! for the love 
Which thou hast granted, through all earthls 

woes. 
To spread heaven's peace around them ; which 

hath bound 
Their spirits to each other and to thee. 
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath 

breathed. 
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious 

God! 
For all its treasured memories ! tender cares. 
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, un 

changed 
Through tears and joy. O Father ! most of all 
We thank, we bless Thee, for the priceless trust 
Through Thy redeeming Son vouchsafed, to those 
That love in Thee, of union, in Tliy sight. 
And in Thy heaven's, immortal ! — Hear our 

prayer ! 
Take home our fond aflfections, purified 
To spirit-radiance from all earthly stain ; 
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell, 
Father ! where all things that are lovely meet 
And all things that are pure — for evermore, 
With Thee and Thine ! 



MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICK-BED 
OF A CHILD. 



Saviour that of woman born. 
Motlier-sorrow didst not scorn, 
Thou with whose last anguish strove 
One dear thought of earthly love ; 

Hear and aid ! 

Low he lies, my precious chila, 
With his spirit wandering wild 
From its gladsome tasks and play, 
And its bright thoughts far av/ay : — 
Saviour, aid ! 

Pain sits heavy on his brow, 
E'en though slumber seal it now ; 
Round his lip is quivering strife, 
In his hand unquiet life ; 

Aid, oh! aid! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



373 



Saviour! loose the burning chain 
From his fevcr'd heart and brain, 
Give, oil ! g:ivc his young- soul back 
Into its own cloudless track ! 

Hear and aid ! 

Tliou tliat said'st, " awake, arise .'" 
E'en when death had quench'd the eyes, 
In this hour of grief's deep sighing, 
When o'erwcariod hope is dying ! 
PIcar and aid ! 

Yet, oil ! make him thine, all thine. 
Saviour ! whether Death's or mine ! 
Yet, oh ! pour on human love. 
Strength, trust, patience, from above ! 
Hear and aid ! 



NIGHT HYMN AT SEA. 

THE. WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FE1.T0N. 



Night sinks on the wave. 

Hollow gusts are sighing, 
Sea-birds to their cave 

Through the gloom are,flying. 
Oh ! should storms come sweeping 
Thou, in Heaven unsleeping. 
O'er thy children vigil keeping, 

Hear, hear, and save! 

Stars look o'er the sea. 

Few, and sad, and shrouded ! 

Faith our light must be. 
When all else is clouded. 

Thou, whose voice came thrilling. 

Wind and billow stilling. 

Speak once more ! our prayer fulfilling- 
Power dwells with Thee ! 



FEMALE CHAEACTERS OF SCRIPTURE. 

A SERIES OF SONNETS. 



Your tenlB are desolate ; your stately steps, 
Of all iheir choral dances, have not left 
One trace beside the fountains; your full cup 
Of gladness and of trembling, each alike 
Is broken : yet amidst undying things. 
The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still 
All the fresh glories of the early world 
Hang round you in the spirit's pictured hall8 
Never to change! 



As the tired voyager on stormy seas 

Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, 
r^ waft him tidings with the gentler breeze. 
Of U'lni sweet woods that hear no billows' roar ; 
So from the depths of days, when earth yet 
wore 

34 



Her solemn beauty and primeval dew, 

I call you, gracious Forms! Oh! come, restore 
Awhile that holy treshness, and renew 
Life's morning dreams. Come witu the voice 
the lyre. 
Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise! 
Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes, ' » 
Imperial in their visionary fire; 
Oh ! steep my soul in that old glorious time, 
When God's own whisper shook the cedars of 
your clime ! 

IL 

invocation continued. 

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen, 
With a soft harmony of tears and light 

Streaming through all your spiritual mien. 
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright, 
Showers weave with sunshine and trarspierce 
their slight 

Ethereal cradle. — From your heart subdued 
All haughty dreams of power had wing'd their 
flight. 

And left high place for martyr fortitude, 

True faith, long suffering love. — Come to mcj 
come ! 
And as the seas beneath your master's tread 
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread 

Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home ; 
So in your presence, let the soul's great deep 
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep. 

IIL 

THE SONG OF MIRIAM. 

A song for Israel's God ! — Spear, crest, and helm, 

Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea, 
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulch al realm 

Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee ; 
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free, 

Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the 
strain, 
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee 

Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain. 
A song for God's own victory ! — O, thy lays, 

Bright Poesy ! were holy in their birth : — 
How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise, 

In the bewildering melodies of earth ! 
Return from troubling bitter founts — return, 
Back to the life-springs of thy native um ! 

IV. 



The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn. 
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd, 

Still brings me back thine image — Oh ! forlorn. 
Yet not forsaken, Ruth ! — I see thee stand 
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest band 

Lone as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam, 
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy father-land 

Smiles far away ! yet to the sense of home. 
That finest, purest, which can recognize 
Home in affection's glance, for ever true 

Beats thy calm heart ; and if thy gentle eyes 
Gleam tremulous throujrh tears, 't is not tn nj« 



Those words, immortal in their deep Love's tone, 
" Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!" 

V. 

THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH. 

" And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and 
spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest 
until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered 
neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the 
beasts of the field by night."— 2 Sam. xxi. 10. 

Who viralches on the mountain with the dead, 
Alone before the awftilness of night ? — 
A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might ? 

A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread ? 

No, a lorn woman ! — On her drooping head. 
Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain : 
She recks not — ^living for the unburied slain, 

Only to scare the vulture from their bed. 

So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept 

With the pale stars, and with the dews hath 
wept; — 
Oh ! surely some bright Presence from above 

On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid ! — 

E'en so ; a strengthener through all storm and 
shade, 
Th' unconquerable Angel, mightiest Love ! 

VI. 

THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN. 
"And she answered, 1 dwell among mine own people."— 
2 Kings, iv. 13. 
» I dwell among mine own." — Oh ! happy thou ! 

Not for the sunny clusters of the vine, 
Nor for the olives on the mountain's brow ; 
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line 
Of streams, that make the green land where 
they shine 
Laugh to the light of waters — not for these, 
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees. 

Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and 
thine — 
Oh ' not for these I call thee richly blest, 
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast. 
Where that sweet depth of still contentment 
lies ; 
And for thy holy household love, which clings 
Unto all ancient and familiar things, 
Weaving from each some link for home's dear 
charities. 

VII. 

THE ANNUNCIATION. 

Lowliest of women, and most glorified ! 

In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, 
A briglitness round thee grew — and by thy side 
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone, 
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. — From her 
throne 
h queen had risen with more imperial eye, 
A stately prophetess of victory 

From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's 
tone. 
For such high tidings as to thee were brought, 
Chosen of Heaven! that hour: — but thou, O 
thou I 



E'en as a flower ivith gracious rains o'erfraught 
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow 
And take toHhy meek breast th' all holy word, 
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord. 

VIII. 

THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN. 

Yet as a sun-burst flushing mountain snow. 

Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long 
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow, 

And thy calm spirit lighten'd into song. 

Unconsciously perchance, yet free and strong 
Flow'd the majestic joy of tuneful words. 

Which living harps the choirs of Heaven 
among 
Might well have link'd with their divinest chords, 
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast, 
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd, 

No more to memory than a feed's faint sigh ; 
While thine, O childlike virgin ! through all time 
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime, 

Being of God, and therefore not to die. 

IX. 

THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRISt's FEET. 

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes. 

That saw thee, woman ! bright in this world's 
train, 
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies, 

Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. 

But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain. 
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn. 

When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain 
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy sc-:irn ; 
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth 

On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh, 
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth 

Than all those costly balms of Araby ; 
Then was there joy, a song of joy in Heaven, 
For thee, the child won back, the penitent for- 



given ! 



X. 



MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST. 

Oh ! blest beyond all daughters of the earth ! 

What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat 
Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth ? 

Mary ! meek listener at the Saviour's feet! 

No feverish cares to that divine retreat 
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought, 

But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet. 
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought 
Oh I for the holy quiet of thy breast, 

'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps 
flying ! 

Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring 
lying 
So deep and still in its transparent rest. 
That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills, 
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills 

XI. 

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OP 
LAZARUS. 

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the iead ! 



Was in your bosoms — thou, whose steps, made 
fleet 
By keen hope fluttering in the heart wliicli bled, 

Bore thee as wings, tlic Lord of Life to greet ; 

And.tliou, that duteous in thy still retreat 
Didst wait his summons then with reverent love 

Fall weeping at the blest Deliverer's feet, 
VVIiojn c'eu to licavenly tears thy woe could move, 
And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just, 
Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust ? 
Oil ! question not, and let no law be given 

To those unveilings of its deepest slirine. 

By the wrong spirit made in outward sign : 
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven. 

XII. 

THE MEMORIAL OP MARY. 

"Verily T say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be 
preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that this 
woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her." — Matthew, 
xxvi. 13. — See also John, xii. 3. 

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall; 

And on the waters of the far mid sea ; 
And where the mighty mountain-shadows flill. 

The Alpine hamlet keeps a tliought of thee : 

Where'er, beneath some Oriental tree. 
The Christian traveller rests — where'er the child 

Looks upward from the English mother's knee. 
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild. 
There art thou known — where'er the Book of 

Light 
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight. 

Is borne tliy memory, and all praise above ; 
Oh ! say what deed so lifl;ed thy sweet name, 
Mary ! to that pure silent place of fame ? 

One lowly offering of exceeding love. 

XIII. 

THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEBI AT THE CROSS. 

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose 
gleam 
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast, 
Such by the Cross doth your bright lingering 
seem, 
Daughters of Zion ! faithftil to the last ! 
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth 
cast 
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's ej'e. 

E'en till away the heavenly spirit pass'd. 
Stood in the shadow of his agony. 
O blessed faith ! a guiding lamp, that hour. 
Was lit for woman's lieart ; to lier, wliose dower 

Is all of love and suffering from her birth ; 
Still hath your act a voice — through fear, tlorough 
strife. 
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life. 
To th:it v.'hich lier deep soul hatli proved of holiest 
worth. 

XIV. 

MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE. 

Weeper ! to thee how bright a morn was given 
After tliy long, long vigil of despair. 

When that high voice which burial rocks had 
riven, 
Thrill'd with immortal tones tlie silent air ! 



Never did clarion's royal blast dcclai-c 
Such talc of victory to a breathless crowd. 

As the deep sweetness of one word could bear. 
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman ! bow'd 
By strong affection's anguish ! — one low word— 
'■^ Mary r — and all the triumph wrung from 
death 
Was thus reveal'd ! and thou, that so hadst err'd, 
So wept and been forgiven, in trembling faith 
Didst cast thee down before th' all-conquering 
Son, 
Awed by the rniglity gift thy tears and love had 
won ! 

XV. 

MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE 
RESURRECTION. 

Then was a task of glory all thine own. 

Nobler than e'er the still small voice assign'd 
To lips in awful music making known 

The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind. 

" Christ is arisen !" by thee to wake mankind, 

First from the sepulchre those words were 

brought ! 

Thou wert to send tlie mighty rushing wind 

First on its way, with those high tidings fraught — 

" Christ has arisen .'" — Thou, thou, the sin en 

thrall'd, 
Earth's outcast. Heaven's own ransom'd one, werl 

cali'd 
In human hearts to give that rapture birth ; 
Oh I raised from shame to brightness ! — them 

doth lie 
The tenderest meaning of His ministry. 
Whose undespairing love still ovra'd the spirit's 
worth. 



THE TWO MONUMENTS. 



Oh! blest are they who live and die like "him," 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'6 

Wordsworth 



Banners hung drooping from on high 
In a dim cathedral's nave, 

Making a gorgeous canopy 
O'er a noble, noble grave ! 

And a marble warrior's form beneath. 
With helm and crest array'd, 

As on his battle bed of death. 
Lay in their crimson shade. 

Triumph yet linger'd in his eye. 
Ere by the dark night seal'd. 

And his head was pillow'd haughtily 
On standard and on shield. 

And shadowing that proud trophy pile 
With the glory of his wing. 

An eagle sat; — yet seem'd the while 
Panting through Heaven to sprinij. 



376 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



He sat upon a shiver'd lance, 

Tliere by tlie sculptor bound; 
But in the lig;lit of his lifted glance 

Was that which scorn'd the ground. 

And a burning flood of gem-like hues 

From a storied window pour'd, 
There fell, there centred, to suffuse 

The conqueror and his sword. 

A flood of hues ! — but one rich dye 

O'er all supremely spread, 
With a purple robe of royalty 

Mantling the mighty dead. 

Meet was that robe for Mm whose name 

Was a trumpet note in war. 
His pathway still the march of fame, 

His eye the battle star. 

Rut faintly, tenderly was thro\vn 
From the colour'd light one ray, 
here a low and pale memorial stone 
By the couch of glory lay. 

/ev/ were the fond words chisell'd there. 

Mourning for parted worth ; 
But the very heart of love and prayer 

Had given their sweetness forth. 

They spoke of one whose life had been 

As a hidden streamlet's course, 
Bearing on health and joy unseen, 

From its clear mountain source ; 

Whose young pure memory, lying deep, 

'Midst rock, and wood, and hill. 
Dwelt in the hom-es where poor men sleep,* 

A soft light meek and still : 

Whose gentle voice, too early call'd 

Unto Music's land away, 
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd, 

By words of silvery sway. 

These were his victories — yet enroll'd 

In no high song of fame. 
The pastor of the mountain-fold 

Left but to Heaven his name. 

To Heaven and to the peasant's hearth, 

A blessed household sound — 
And finding lowly love on earth. 

Enough, enough he found ! 

Bright and more bright before me gleam'd 

That sainted image still; 
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd 

The regal fane to fill. 

Oh ! how my silent spirit turn'd 

From those proud trophies nigh; 
How my full heart witliin me burn'd 

Like Him to live and die ! 



* Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie. 

Wordsworth 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD 



Forget them not ! though now their name 

Be but a mournful sound, 
Though by the hearth its utterance claim 

A stillness round : 

Though for their sake this earth no more 

As it hath been, may be. 
And shadows, never mark'd before, 

Brood o'er each tree : 

And though their image dim the sky. 

Yet, yet, forget them not ! 
Nor, where their love and life went by, 

Forsake the spot ! 

They have a breathing influence there, 
A charm not elsewhere found ; 

Sad — yet it sanctifies the air, 
The stream, the ground. 

Then, though the wind an alter'd tone 
Through the young foliage bear. 

Though every flower, of something gone, 
A tinge may wear : 

Oh, fly it not! — no fruitless grief 

Thus in their presence felt, 
A record links to every leaf. 

There, where they dwelt. 

Still trace the path which knew their tread, 
Still tend their garden bower. 

Still commune with the holy dead, 
In each lone hour. 

The holy dead ! — oh ! blest we are. 

That we may call them so, 
And to their image look afar, 

Through all our woe! 

Blest that the things they loved on earth 

As relics we may hold, 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth 

By springs untold ! 

Blest, that a deep and chastening power 
Thus o'er our souls is given, 

If but to bird, or song, or flower. 
Yet, all for Heaven. 



ANGEL VISITS. 



No more of talk where God or angel guest 
With man, as with his friend, familiar used 
To sit indulgent, and with him partake 
Rural repast. 

Milton. 



Are ye for ever to your skies departed? 

Oh ! will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted 

Though Eden's fresh and flowering shades of 
vore? 



Now arc the fountains dried on that sweet spot, 
And ye — our faded cartli beholds you not ! 

Yet, by your sliinins^ eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wander'd from liis Paradise away ; 

Vc, from for^etfulness his heart to waken. 
Came down, high guests ! in many a later day, 

And with the Patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

'.Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 

Fr im you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, 
Came the rich mysteries to the Sleeper's eye, 

That saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and 
sky ; 

Trembling he woke, and bow'd o'er glory's trace. 

And worshipp'd, awe-struck, in that fearfiil place. 

By Chebar's* brook ye pass'd, sucli radiance 
wearing 

As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bsaring. 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ! 
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour. 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive mount, by night appearing, 
'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was 
done ! 
Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, 
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his 
Son? — 
Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains, 
Wailed good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Y"et one more task was yours ! your heavenly 
dwelling 
Ye left, and by th' unseal'd sepulchral stone, 
In glorious raiment, sat ; the weepers telling, 
That He they sought had triumph'd, and was 
gone! 
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore. 
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, 
WitJi gentle promptings and sweet influence 

yet. 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over. 
When, 'midst the palm-trees, man your foot- 
steps met ? 
Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, 
When love, by strength, o'crmasters agpny ? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? 
Wlicn martyrs, all things for his sake resigning. 
Lead on tlic march of death, serenely brave ? 
Dreams ! — but a deeper thought our souls may 

fill- 
One, One is near — a spirit holier still ! 



A PENITENT'S RETURN. 



Can guilt or misery ever enter here 7 
All ! no, the spirit of ilomeglic peace, 
Though cahn and gentle as the brooding dove 
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, 
Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim, 
The hallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smiio. 
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice, 
And wins him o'er to virtue. 

Wilson. 



2A 



''Ezekiel. chap 

34* 



My father's house once more 
In its own moonlight beauty ! Yet around, 
Something amidst the dewy calm profound. 

Broods, never mark'd before ! 

Is it the brooding night. 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air. 
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair 

O'erwhelming to my sight ? 

All solemnized it seems. 
And still, and darken'd in each time-worn hue, 
Since the rich clustering roses met my view, 

As now, by starry gleams. 

And this high elm, where last 
I stood and linger'd — where my sisters made 
Our mother's bower — I deem'd not that it cast 

So far and dark a shade ! 

How spirit-like a tone 
Sighs through yon tree ! My father's place was 

there. 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hail 

Now those gray locks are gone ! 

My soul grows faint with fear ; 
Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod 
I tremble where I move — the voice of God 

Is in the foliage here ! 

Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful 1 Faithless- 
hearted ! 
'T is that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn gladd'ning light ! 

No outward thing is changed; 
Only the joy of purity is fled. 
And, long from nature's melodies estranged. 

Thou hear'st their tones with dread. 

Therefore, the calm abode. 
By thy dark spirit, is o'crhung with shade , 
Arid, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God, 

Makes thy sick heart afraid ! 

The night-flowers round that door 
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untamted aw 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee therr: 



3^n 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And must I turn away? — 
Hark, hark 1 — it is my mother's voice 1 hear — 
Sadder than once it scem'd — yet soft and clear— 

Doth she,not seem to pray ? 

My name ! — I caught the sound ! 
9h . blessed tone of love — the deep, the mild — 
■VIotlier, my mother I now receive thy child, 

Take back the lost and found ! 



A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. 



We receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does nature live ; 
Ours is lier wedding garment, ours lier aliroud, 
And would we aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd ; 
Ah I from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, 

Enveloping the earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth. 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element. 

Coleridge. 



Green spot of holy ground ! 

If thou couldst yet be found, 
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers ; 

If not one sullying breath 

Of time, or change, or death. 
Had toucli'd the vernal glory of tliy bowers ; 

Might our tired pilgrim-feet, 

Worn by the desert's heat, 
> )n the bright freshness of thy turf repose? 

Might our eyes wander tliere 

Through heaven's transparent air. 
And rest on colours of the immortal rose ? 

Say, would thy balmy skies 

And fountain-melodies 
Our lieritage of lost delight restore? 

Could thy soil honey-dews 

Through all our veins diffuse 
1 ne early, child-like, trustful sleep once more ? 

And might we, in the shade 

By thy tall cedars made. 
With angel voices high communion hold ? 

Would their sweet solemn tone 

Give back the music gone. 
Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old ? 

Oil ! no — thy sunny hours 

Might come with blossom showers, 
All tliy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill; 

But we — should we not bring 

Into thy realms of spring 
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still? 

What could thy flowers and airs 

Do for our earth-born cares ? 
Would the world's chain »melt off and leave us 
fteel 

N^o ! — past each living stream, 

Still would some fever dreain 
r>'acl' tiifi lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee I 



Should we not shrink with fear. 

If angel steps were near. 
Feeling our burden'd souls within us die? 

Hov/ might our passions brook 

The still and searching look, 
The star-like glance of seraph purity ? 

Thy golden-fruited grove 

Was not for pining love ; 
Vain sadness would but dim tiiy crystal skies! 

Oh! TAou wert but a part 

Of what man's exiled heart 
Hath lost — the dower of inborn Paradise ! 



LET US DEPART. 



It is mentioned by Josephus, that a short time previously to 
the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going 
by night into the inner court of the temple to perform theit 
sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, fell a quaking, 
and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a 
great multitude saying, "Let us depart hence." 



Night hung on Salem's towers, 

And a brooding hush profound 
Lay where the Roman eagle shone, 

High o'er the tents around. 

The tents that rose by thousands 
In tlie moonlight glimmering pale ; 

Like wliite waves of a frozen sea, 
Filling an Alpine vale. 

And the temple's massy shadow 

Fell broad, and dark, and still, 
In peace, as if the Holy One 

Yet watch'd his chosen hill. 

But a fearful sound was heard 
In that old fane's deepest heart, 

As if mighty wings rush'd by. 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart !" 

Within the fated city 

E'en then fierce discord raved, 
Thougli o'er night's heaven the comet sword 

Its vengeful token waved. 

There were shouts of kindred warfare 
Through the dark streets ringing high, 

Thougli every sign was full which told 
Of the bloody vintage nigh. 

Though the wild red spears and arrows 

Of many a meteor host, 
Went flashing o'er the holy stars, 

In the sky now seen, now lost. 

And that fearful sound was heard 

In the Temple's deepest heart, 
As if mighty wings rush'd by, 

And a voice cried rrournfully 
"Let us depart I" 



iJut within tlic i\dcd city 

There was revelry that night ; 

Tlic wine-cup and tiie timbrel note, 
And the blaze of banquet light. 

The footsteps of the dancer 

Went bounding through the hall, 

And the music of the dulcimer 
Summon'd to festival. 

While the clash of brother weapons 
M:idc lightning in the air, 

And the dying at the palace gates 
Lay down in their despair. 

And that fearful sound was heard 
At the Temple's thrilling heart, 

As if mighty wings rush'd by. 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart .'" 



OIV A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING 
THE CROSS, 

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.* 



COMMUNINGS WITH 'I'HOUGHT. 



Could we but keep our spirits to that height, 
We miglit be happy ; but Ihia clay will sink 
Its spark iininuital. 



By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, 
Holiest of sufferers I round thy patli of woe, 

And by the weight of mortal agony 

Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek 
brow, 

My heart was awed : the burden of thy pain 

Sank on me with a mystery and a chain. 

I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed 
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray 

Of victory from thy mien I and round thy head. 
The halo, melting spirit-like away, 

Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born, 

To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn. 

And upwards, through transparent darkness 
gleaming. 
Gazed, in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye. 
Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming. 

With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency; 
Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil'd 

shrine, 
About the Form, so mournfully divine ! 

Oh ! let thine iinago, as e'en then it rose, 
liive in my soul for ever, calm and clear, 

Making itself a temple of repose. 

Beyond the breath of human hope or fear ! 

A holy place, where through all storms may lie 

One living beam of day-spring from on high. 



♦This picture is in the possession of Viscount Harberton, 
Meriou Sgi:arc, Dublin 



Return, my thoughts, come home ! 
Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep? 
And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'erswecp. 

As birds the ocean foam ? 

Swifter than shooting star, 
Swifter than glances of the northern light, 
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, 

Hath been your course afar ! 

Through the bright battle-clime. 
Where laurel boughs make dim the Greciaii 

streams. 
And reeds are whispering of heroic theme, 

By temples of old time : 

Through the north's ancient halls, 
Where banners thrill'd of yore, where harp- 

_ strings rung. 
But grass waves now o'er those that fought and 
sung — 

Hearth-light hath left their walls. 

Through forests old and dim. 
Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to 

brood, 
And sometimes on the haunted solitude 

Rises the pilgrim's hymn : 

Or where some fountain lies. 
With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods 

gleaming ! 
There have ye been, ye wanderers ! idly dreaming 

Of man's lost paradise ! 

Return, my thoughts, return ! 
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track, 
And voices, not of music, call you back — 

Harsh voices, cold and stern ! 

Oh ! no, return ye not ! 
Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be ! 
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright 
and free 

O'er many a hamated spot. 

Go, seek the martyr's grave, 
'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast 
Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past, 

Follow the wise and br.ive ! 

Go, visit cell and shrine 
Where woman hath endured .^through wrong 

through scorn, 
Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne 

By promptings more divine ! 



380 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Go, shoot the gulf of death ! 
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, 
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find. 

Where the storm sends no breath ! 

Hig-lier, and yet more high ! 
iSliake off the cumbering chain which earth 

would lay 
On your victorious wings — mount, mount ! — Your 
way 
Is througli eternity ! 



SONNETS, 

DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 



THE SACRED HARP. 

How shall the Harp of poesy regain. 

That oU victorious tone of prophet-years, 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, 

And all the hovering shadows of the brain ? 

Dark evil wings took flight before the strain, 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall. 
Sank on the soul : — Oh ! who may now recall 

The mighty music's consecrated reign ? — 

Spirit of God ! whose glory once o'erhung 
A thront , the Ark's dread cherubim between, 
So let thj aresence brood, though novi?^ unseen, 

O'er those two powers by whom the harp is 
strung — 

Feeling and Thought ! — till the rekindled chords 

Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words 1 

IL 

TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as their 

shrine, 
(riing reverently ! of anxious looks beguiled, 
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine. 
Each day were bent : — her accents, gravely mild, 
Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy child, 
Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away. 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers 

wild, 
Some fresjh discover'd nook for woodland play. 
Some secret nest : — yet would the solemn Word 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard. 

Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost ; — for which, in darker years, 
O Book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 

IIL 

REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY. 
From an old Italian Picture, 
tmder a palm-tree, by the green old Nile, 

Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair child lies. 
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile. 

Brooding above the slumber of his eyes. 
While, through the stillness of *he burning skies, 



Lo ! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings 
Temple and pyramid beyond him rise, 

Regal and still as everlasting things ! — 
Vain pomps ! from Him, with that pure flower^ 
cheek. 

Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head, 
A new-born Spirit, mighty, and yet meek, 

O'er the whole world like vernal air sJiah 
spread I 
And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown, 
Before the suffering and the lowly, down. 

IV. 

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS, 

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glov.' 

ing, 
Round the young Child luxuriantly are spread ; 
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing. 
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. 
Roses, deep-fill'd with rich midsummer's red. 
Circle his hands ; but in his grave sweet eye. 
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy 
Of ruder coronals for that meek head. 
And thus it was ! a diadem of thorn 

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with 

flowers. 
To Him who pour'd forth blessings m soft 

showers. 
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn ! 
And we repine, for whom that cup He took 
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that 

forsook ! 



ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST. 

An Ecce Homo, by Leonardo da Vinci. 

I met that image on a mirthfiil day 

Of youth, and sinking with a still'd surprise. 
The pride of life before those holy eyes. 
In my quick heart died thoughtftdly away, 
Abash'd to mute confessions of a sway. 

Awful, though meek ; and now, that from the 

strings 
Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings 
Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay ; 
Now, that around the deep life of my mind. 
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined. 

Oft does the pale bright vision still float by ; 
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now 
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow. 
Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, ha 
manity ' 

VI. 

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLEST. 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight 
Ye grew, fair children ! hallow'd froin that hour 
By your Lord's blessing ! surely thence a 
shower 

Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light, 

Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright, 
Through all the after years, which saw ye move 

Lowly, yet still majestic in the might. 

The conscious glory of the Saviour's love ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



38' 



And honour'd be all childhood, for the sake 
Of that jiigh love ! let reverential care 

Watch to beliold the immortui spirit wake, 
And shield its first bloom from unholy air ; 

Owning' in caeh yoiuig suppliant glance, the sign 

Of claims upon a heritage divine. 

VII. 

MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES. 
"He went up to a mountain apart to pray." 

A child 'midst ancient mountains I have stood. 
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest 

On high. The spirit of the solitude 
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast. 

Though that I pray'd not; but deep thoughts 
have press'd 
Into my being since it breathed that air. 

Nor could I now one moment live the guest 
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of 
prayer 

O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise 

Like them in pure communion with the skies, 

Vast, silent, open unto night and day ; 

So might the o'erburden'd Son of man have felt, 
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, 

He sought high motmtains, there apart to pray. 

VIIL 

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 
" Consider the lilies of the field." 

Mowers ! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye 
Fell on your gentle beauty — when from you 
That heavenly lesson from all hearts he drew, 

Eternal, universal, as the sk}' — 

Then, in the bosom of your purity, 
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine. 

That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by 
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine. 

And though too oft its low, celestial sound. 

By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd. 

And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste, 
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power 
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd 
hour. 

Than yom-s, ye Lilies I chosen thus and graced ! 

IX. 

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 
"And behold the birds of the air." 

Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of air. 

Were charged that hour, on missionary wing. 
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear. 

Heaven-guided wanderers with the winds of 
spring ! 
Smg on, before the storm and after, sing ! 
And call us to your echoing woods away 
From worldly cares ; and bid our spirits bring 

Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. 
So may those blessed vernal strains renew 
Childhood, a eliildhcod yet more pure and true 

E'en than the first, within th' awakcn'd mind; 
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of hfe, 
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife, 

But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd. 



X. 

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW's SON. 

"And he that was dead sat up and began (o speak." 

He that was dead rose up and spoke — He spoke ! 

Was it of that majestic world unknown? 
Those words, which first the bier's dread silcnco 
broke. 
Came they with revelation in each tone? 
Were the far cities of the nations gone. 

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep. 
For man uneurtain'd by that spirit lone. 

Back from their portal sumnion'd o'er the deep? 
Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay 
Still drawn: — thy Lord call'd back the voice 

departed, ' 

To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted. 
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. 
Oh ! take that lesson home in silent faith. 
Put on submissive strength to meet, not question 
death ! 

XL 

THE OLIVE TREE. 

The Palm — the Vine — the Cedar — each hath 

power 
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by. 
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower 
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye. 
But thou, pale Olive ! — in thy branches lie 
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old 
Might e'er enshrine : — I could not hear thee sigh 
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold 
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silver^' green, 
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene 
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd — 
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head. 
And angels, ministering in silent dread, 
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade 

XII. 

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung. 
Felt shudderingly at noon : — the land had driven 
A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven, 
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung, 
All grace, all truth : — and, when to anguish 

wrung. 
From the sharp cross th' enlighteniii'r spirit fled. 
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread 
By the great shadow of that death w;,s flung. 
O Saviour ! O Atoncr ! thou that fain 
Wouldst make thy temple in each huiran breast, 
liCave not such darkness in my soul to reign, 
Ne'er may thy presence from its deptht^^ dcpari, 
Chased thence by guilt ! — Oh ! turn not ti ■m aw<ij 
The bright and morning star, my guide to pcri'ce! 

day! 

XIII 

PLACES OF WORSHIP 
" God is a Spirit. 
Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence hlls 
Air, ocean, central depths, '<^' man untried 



382 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Thou fcf thy worshippers hast sanctified 
All plaoe, all time ! The silence of the hills 
Breathes veneration : — founts and choral rills 
Of thee are murmuring: — to its inmost glade 
The living- forest with thy whisper thrills, 
And tuere is holiness on every shade. 
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest 
With dearer consecration those pure fanes, 
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest, 
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains 
Rise heavenward. — Ne'er may rock or cave possess 
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tender- 



XIV. 

OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK. 

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone 
In gracious sanctity. A briglit rill wound, 
Caressingly, about the holy ground ; 
And v/arbled, with a never-dying tone. 
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone 
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam 
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream. 
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be tiirown, 
And something yet more deep. The air was 

fraught 
With noble memories, whispering many a thought 
Of England's fathers; loftily serene. 
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled to secure. 
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, 
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the 

scene. 

XV. 

A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. 

Blessings be round it still ! that gleaming fane, 
Low in its mountain glen ! old mossy trees 
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane. 
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze. 
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas. 
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone. 
There meets the voice of psalms ! — yet not alone. 
For memories lulling to the heart as these, 
I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, gray house of 

prayer ! 
But for their sakes who unto thee repair 
From the hill-cabms and the ocean-shore. 
Oh ! may the fisher and the mountaineer, 
Words to sustain earth's toiling children bear, 
Within thy lowly walls for evermore ! 

XVI. 

juOUISE SCHEPLER. 

kjouise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pas- 
tor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children 
for their perusal after his decease, affijctingly commemorates 
her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of 
ihe mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circum 
-tances of difficulty and danger. 

A fearless journeyer o'e- the mountain snow 
VVert thou, Louise ! the sun's decaying light, 
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow, 
lleddeii'd thy steep wild v/ay : the starry night 
I )ft met tliee, crossing soine lone eagle's height. 



Piercing some dark ravine : and many a dell 
Knew, through its ancient rock-rccesscs, well. 
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them 

bright 
Oft in mid-storms ; oh ! not with beauty's eye, 
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning 
No ! pilgrim of unwearying charity ! 
Thy spell was love — the mountain deserts turning 
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice 
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving 

voice ! 

XVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind. 
Through the pine forests by the upland rills, 
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, 
A wild neglected flock ! to seek, and find. 
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind 
With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine. 
Daughter of Christ ! but his, whose love divine, 
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shiined, 
A burning light ! Oh ! beautiful, in truth. 
Upon the mountains are the feet of those 
Who bear his tidings ! From thy morn of youth, 
For this were all thy journeyings, and the close 
Of that long path. Heaven's own bright sabbath- 
rest. 
Must wait thee, wanderer ! on thy Saviour's 
breast. 



THE PALMER. 



The faded palm-branch in his hand, 
Show'd pilgrim of the Holy Land. 



Art thou come from the far-off land at last ! 

Thou that hast wander'd long ! 
Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath 
pass'd, 

With the merry voice of song. 

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 

Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 
They are parted e'en as waters part. 

To meet in the deep alone ! 

And thou — from thy lip is fled the glow, 
From thine eye the light of morn; 

And the shades of thought o'erhang thy brow. 
And thy cheek with life is worn. 

Say what hast thou brought from the distant 
shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay ? 
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more ? 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way ■? 

" I have brought but the palm branch m my hand. 

Yet I call not my bright youth lost ! 
I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, 

Yet I count not too dear the cost '. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



383 



' 1 loi)k on tlie leaves of tlic deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
A-ud better than youth in its llusli of glee, 

Are tlie memories they give nic back ! 

" They speak of toil, and of high emprise, 

As in words of solemn cheer, 
They speak of lonely victories 

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear. 

" They speak of scenes which have now become 

Bright pictures in my breast ; 
Where my spirit finds a glorious home, 

And tlie love of my heart can rest. 

" The colours pass not from these away. 

Like tints of shower or sun ; 
Oh I beyond all treasures that know decay, 

Is tlie wealth my soul hath won ! 

" A rich light thence o'er my life's decline. 

An inborn ligiit is cast ; 
For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, 

I bewail not my bright days past !" 



LINES 
TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. 



Creature of air and light ! 
Emblem of that which will not fade or die ! 

Wilt thou not speed thy flight. 
To chase the south wind through the glowing sky? 

What lures thee thus to stay. 

With silence and decay, 
Fix'd on the wreck of cold mortality ? 

The thoughts, once chamber'd there. 
Have gather'd up their treasures, and are gone ; — 

Will the dust tell thee where 
That whicli hath burst the prison-house is flown ? 

Rise, nursling of the day ! 

1 f thou wouldst trace its way — 
Earth has no voice to make the secret known. 

Who seeks the vanish'd bird. 
Near Ihe deserted nest and broken shell? 

Far thence, by us unheard. 
He sings, rejoicing hi the woods to dwell; 

Tliou of the sunshine born. 

Take tlie bright wings of morn ! 
Thy hope springs heavenward from yon ruin'd 
cell. 



THE WATER-LILY. 



The 'Water-Lilies, that are serene in the cahn clear water, 
but no lees serene anions; tlie black and scowling waves. 

Licltts and hkadows of Scottish Life. 



On! beauliful tliou art, 
Thou sculpturc-liKc and stately River-Queen ! 
Crowning the dc] ihs, as with the ligjit serene 

Of a pure heart. 



Bright lily of the wave ! 
Rising in learless grace witli every swell. 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 

Dwelt in thy cell : 

Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free. 
Whether with loam or pictured azure spread 

The waters be. 

What is like thee, fair flower, 
The gentle and the firm ? thus bearing up 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup. 

As to the shower ? 

Oh ! Love is most like thee, 
The love of woman ; quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 

'Midst Life's dark sea. 

And Faith — O, is not faith 
Like thee too, Lily, springing into light, 
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 

I'hrough the storm's breath ? 

Yes, link'd with such high thought, 
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie ! 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace is wrought : 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed. 

As from a shrine. 



THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET. 



Where shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, 
lliis world of changes and farewells, a friend 

That will not fail me in his love and wortli. 
Tender, and firm, and faithful to the end ? 

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest — 
Long on vain idols its devotion shed ; 

Some have forsaken whom I loved the best, 
And some deceived, and some are with ths 
dead. 

But fAoM, my Saviour ! thou, my hope and trust. 
Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart 

Teach me to lift these yearnings from the duit. 
And fix on thee, tli' Unchanging One, my hea it 



CHRIST WALKING ON THE WATETi 



Fear was within the tossing bark. 
When stormy winds giew loud, 

And waves came rolling high and 1a:k 
And the m\\ mast was bow'd 



And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled in their skill — 
But One was there, who rose, and said 

To the wild sea — be still ! 

And the wind ceased — it ceased ! — that word 
Pass'd through the g-loomy sky ; 

The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
And fell beneath His eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast ; 
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep 

When sultry day is past. 

Oh! thou, that in its wildest hour 

Didst rule the tempest's mood. 
Send thy meek spirit fortJi in power 

Soft on our souls to brood. 

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride 

Thy mandate to fulfil, 
Oh ! speak to passion's raging tide, 

Speak, and say, "Peace, be still!" 



A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. 



'T WAS early day, and sunlight stream'd 

Soft through a quiet room. 
That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd, 

Still, but with naught of gloom. 
For there, serene in happy age, 
■ Whose hope is from above, 
A Fatlier communed with the page 

Of Heaven's recorded love. 

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 

On his gray holy hair, 
And touch'd the page with tenderest light, 

As if its shrine were there! 
But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 

With something lovelier far, 
A radiance all the spirit's own, 

Caught not from sun or star. 

Some word of life e'en then had met 

His calm, benignant eye. 
Some ancient promise, breathing yet 

Of Immortality : 
Some Martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 

Of quenchless faith survives: 
For every feature said — " / know 

That my Redeemer lives .'" 

And silent stood his children by. 

Hushing their very breatli, 
Hefore the solemn sanctity 

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
Silent — yet did not each young breast 

Witli iove and reverence melt? 
Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 

Th home where God is felt ' 



THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF, 



" Oh ! call my brother back to me ! 

I cannot play alone ! 
The summer comes with flower and bee — 

Where is my brother gone ? 

The butterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbeam's track ; 
I care not now to chase its flight — 

Oh ! call my brother back I 

The flowers run v^^ild — the flowers we sow'd 

Around our garden tree ; 
Our vine is drooping with its load — 

Oh! call him back to me !" 

" He would not hear thy voice, fair child ; 

He may not come to thee ; 
The face that once like spring-time smiled, 

On earth no more thou'lt see. 

" A rose's brief bright life of joy, 

Such unto him was given ; 
Go — thou must play alone, my boy ! 

Thy brother is in heaven." 

And has he left his birds and flowers ; 

And must I call in vain ? 
And through the long, long summer hours, 

Will he not come again ? 

And by the brook and in tlie glade 

Are all our wanderings o'er ? 
Oh ! while my brother with me play'd. 

Would I had loved him moreV^ 



EPITAPH 

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, 

A CHILD AND A YOUTH. 



Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy. 
And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee, 

And o'er his slumber bend in breatliless joy. 
Come to this tomb ! it hath a voice for tliiie ! 

Pray ! — thou art blest — ask strength for sorrow's 
hour, 
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken fl( .wer. 

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth, 

Thy thousand hopes — rejoicing to behold 
All the heart's depths before thee bright with 
truth, 
All the mind's treasure silently unfold ; 
Look on this tomb ! — for thee, too, speaks the 

grave, 
Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope he gav© 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



38^ 



HYMN BY THE SICK BED OF A MOTHER. 



Father ! that in tlie olive shade 
Wiien the dark liour came on, 
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, 
Strengthen thy Son ; 

Oh ! by the anguish of that night, 

Send us down blest relief; 
Or to tlie chasten'd, let thy might 
Hallow this grief! 

And Thou, that when the starry sky 

Saw the dead strife begun. 
Didst teach adoring faith to cry, 

" Thy will be done !" 

By thy meek spirit. Thou, of all 

That e'er have mourn'd the eliief — 
Thou Saviour- 1 if the stroke 7nust fall, 
Hallow this sfrief ! 



A DIRGE. 



Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit! rest thee now! 

Ev'n while with us thy ibotstcps trod, 
His soul was on thy brow. 



Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy looii in deatli, 

No more may fear to die. 



Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
Whence thy meek smile is gone; 

But oh! a brighter home than ours, 
In heaven, is now thine own. 



^utinnul %mitt$, mii^ ^dhh;^ for ^tii^Ct* 



INTRODUCTORY STAKSAS. 



THE THEMES OF SONG. 



Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, 
And melancholy fear subdued by faith. 

Wordsworth. 



Where shall the minstrel find a theme ? 

— Where'er for freedom shed. 
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream 

Amidst the mountains, red. 

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove, 

Bears record to the faith 
Of love, deep, holy, fervent love, 

Victor o'er fear and death. 

Where'er a \ hieftain's crested brow 
Too soon hath been struck down, 

Or a bright virgin head laid low, 
Wearhig its youth's first crown. 

Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 
Througli storm and summer air, 

Felling, tliat all around have striven, 
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer. 

Wliere'er a blessed Home hath been, 

That now is Home no more : 
A place of ivy, darkly green. 

Where laughter's light is o'er. 



Where'er by some forsaken grave, 
Some nameless greensward heap, 

A bird may sing, a wild-fl.ower wave, 
A star its vigil keep. 

Or where a yearning heart of old, 

A dream of shepherd men. 
With forms of more than earthly mould 

Hath peopled grot or glen. 

There may the bard's high themes be found— 

— We die, we pass away : 
But faith, love, pity — these are bound 

To earth without decay. 

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, 

The tear from hidden springs. 
The thorn and glory of the rose — 

These are undying things. 

Wave after wave of mighty stream 

To the deep sea hath gone : 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream. 

The exhaustless flood rolls on. 



RHINE SONG 

OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY. 



"I wish you could have hoard Sir Waller Scott doscribo a 
glorious sijflit, which had been wilnest^cd liy n friend of his'- 
tlie crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenhreiistein. hy the (Jcrnian 
army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. 
'At the first gleam of the river,' he saiil, ' ihey all burst forth 
into the national chant, 'Am Rhein! Am Rhein!' riie» 



386 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



were two days passing over; and the rocks and the oaslle 
were ringing to the song the whole lime;— for each band re- 
newed it wliile crossing; and even the Cossaclis, with tlie 
clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, 
calching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, 
^m Rheinl Am, lihein!' " — Manuscript Letter. 



during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the 
scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden fluwcf unoremeditaled 
song. 



TO TIIE AIR Of " AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN." 

SINGLE VOICE. 

It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving, 

I see tlie bright flood shine, I see the bright 

flood shine : 

Sing on the march, with every banner waving — 

Sing, brothers, 't is the Rhine ! Sing, brothers, 

'tis the Rhine! 



The Rhine ! the Rhine, our own imperial River ! 

Be glory on tliy track, be glory on thy track I 
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ; — 

We bear thee Freedom back, we bear thee 
Freedom back ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Flail! Hail! my childhood knew the rush of 
water, 
Ev'n as my mother's song ; ev'n as my mother's 
song ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 
And heart and arm grew strong ! And heart 
and arm grew strong ! 

CHORUS. 

Roll proudly on ! — brave blood is with thee 
sweeping, 
Pour'd out by sons of tliine, pour'd out by sons 
of thine, 
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping. 
Like tliec, victorious Rliine ! Like thee, victo- 
rious Rhine ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Home ! — Home ! — thy glad wave hath a tone of 
greeting. 
Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my 
home: 

Even now my children count the hours till meet- 
ings 

O ransom'd ones, I come ! O ransom'd ones, I 
com.e I 

CHORUS. 

Go, tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never, 

Sound on by hcartli and shrine, sound on by 

hearth and shrine ! 

Sing througli the hifls, that thou art free for ever — 

liift up thy voice, O Rhine ! Lift up thy voice, 

O Rhine ! 



A SONG OF DELOS. 



Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce Nature, 
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau; 
L'air est si parfume ! la lumiere est si pure I 
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soliel est si beau ! 

Lamartint^ 



the Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity 
l/y the ancients, that they did not aliow it to be desecrated by 
the events of birth or death. In the foHowing poem, a young 
Drie3ies& of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores 



A SONG was heard of old — a low, sweet song, 
On the blue seas by Delos : from that isle, 
The Sun-God's own domain, a gentle girl, 
Gentle — yet all inspired of soul, of mien. 
Lit with a life too perilously bright. 
Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
Seems this world to the dying I — but for her. 
The child of beauty and of poesy. 
And of soft Grecian skies — oh ! who may dream 
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth, 
Or glanced more quiveringly tlirough starry tears, 
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane 
Colour'd with loving light — she gazed lier last, 
Her young life's last, that hour ? from her pale 

brow 
And burning clieek she threw the ringlets back. 
And bending forward — as the spirit sway'd 
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, 
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell 
O'er dancing waves : — " Oh ! linger yet," she cried 

" Oh ! linger, linger, on the oar, 

Oh ! pause upon the deep ! 
That I may gaze yet once, once more. 
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep. 
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore 5 
— Oh ! linger, linger on the parting oar 1 

" I see the laurels fling back showers 
Of soft liglit still on many a slirine ; 

I see the path to haunts of flowers 
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line, 
I hear a sound of flutes — a swell of song — 
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng * 

" Oh ! linger, linger on the oar 

Beneath my native sky ! 
Let my life part from that bright shore 
With Day's last crimson — gazing let me die ! 
Thou bark, glide slowly ! — slo.wly should be borno 
The voyager that never shall return. 

" A fatal gift hath been thy dower. 

Lord of the liyre ! to me ; 
With song and wreath from bower to bowe , 
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free 
While T, through long, lone, voiceless liours aparv 
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart. 

" Now wasted by the inborn fire, 

I sink to early rest ; 
The ray that lit the incense-pyre. 
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 
— O sunshine, skies, rich flowers I too somi I go. 
While round me thus triumphantly ye gkw .' 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



3^7 



" Bright Isie ! mii,-ht but thine echoes keep 

A tone of my rarewcll, 
One tender accent, low and deep, 
Slirincd 'midst thy founts and haunted roclcs to 

dwell ! 
Mi.irht my last breath send music to thy shore ! 
— Oh ! hngcr, seamen, linger on the oar ! 



ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY. 



Fill high Iha bowl with Samiaii wine. 
Our virgins dance boneaih the shadi! 



Byron 



lo ! they come, they come ! 

Garlands for every shrine ! 
Strike lyres to greet them home ; 

Bring roses, pour ye wine I 

Swell, swell the Dorian flute 

Through the blue, triumphant sky ! 

Let the Cittern's tone salute 
The sons of victory. 

With the offering of bright blood 

They have ransom'd hearth and tomb, 

Vineyard, and field, and flood ; — 
lo ! they come, they come ! 

Sing it where olives wave, 

And by the glittering sea. 
And o'er each hero's grave, — 

Sing, sing, the land is free ! 

Mark ye the flashing oars. 

And" the spears tiiat light the deep ? 
How the festal sunshine pours 

Where the lords of battle sweep ! 

Each hath brought back his shield ; — 
Maid, greet thy lover home ! 

Motiicr, from that proud field, 
lo ! thy son is come ! 

Who murmur'd of the dead ? 

Hush, boding voice ! We know 
That many a sinning head 

Lies in its glory low. 

Breathe not those names to-day ! 

They shall have their praise ere long, 
And a power all hearts to sway, 

In ever-burning song. 

But now shed flowers, pour wine, 
To hail the conquerors home ! 

Bring wreaths for every shrine — 
lo I tliey come, they come ! 



THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS. 



•iuE came forth in her bridal robes array'd, 
And, 'midst tlic graceful statues, round the hall 
Sheci'iing the calm of their celestial mien, 
StooO pale, yet proudly beautiful, as they ; 



Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair. 
And death upon her brow ! — but glorious death, 
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
Of love, o'crmastering love; which, till that hour 
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
Of its unutterable tenderness, 
Had burdcn'd her full soul. But now, oh ! now 
Its time was come — and from the spirit's depths, 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice, in triumph broke, 
Like a strong rushing wind ! 

The soft pure air 
Came floating through that hall ; — the Grecian air, 
Laden with music — flute-notes from the vales, 
Echoes of song — the last sweet sounds of life ; 
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her form. 
The glorified of love I But she — she look'd 
Only on him. for whom 'twas joy to die. 
Deep — deepest, holiest joy I — or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze. 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide 
Of her unswerving soul — 't was but a thought 
That own'd the summer-loveliness of life 
For Jiim a worthy offering ! — So she stood. 
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile. 
Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 
With the swift breeze of inspiration shook. 
As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 
Of inborn oracles I — then flush'd her cheek, 
And all the triumph, all the agony. 
Borne on the battling waves of love and dcatli, 
All from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 
Burst like a fount of fire. 

" I go, I go ! 

Thou Sim, thou golden Sun, I go. 
Far from thy light to dwell ; 

Thou shalt not find my place below. 
Dim is that world — bright Sun of Greece, fjira. 
well !" 

The Laurel and the glorious Rose 

Thy glad beam yet may see, 
But where no purple summer glows. 
O'er the dark wave / haste from them and thee. 

Yet doth my spirit faint to part? 

— I mourn thee not, O Sun 1 
Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart. 
Sing me triumphal songs! — my crown is won > 

Let not a voice of weeping rise ! 
My heart is girt with power ! 
Let the green earth and festal skies 
Laugh as to grace a conqueror's closing hour 

For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord ! 

Thee, my soul's loved ! I die ; 
Thine is the torch of life restored. 
Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victorv ' 

Now may the boundless love, that lay 

Unfathom'd still before, 
In one consuming burst find way, 
In one bright flood all, ait its riches jiour 



388 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS 



Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is 
now ! 
Its glory and its might — 
Are they not written on my brow ? 
And will that image ever quit thy sight? 

No ! deathless in thy faithful breast, 

There shall my memory keep 
Its own bright altar-place of rest. 
While o'er my grave the cypress-branches weep, 

— Oh ! the glad light ! — the light is fair, 

The soft breeze warm and free, 
And rich notes fill the scented air 
And all are gifts — my love's last gifts to thee ! 

Take me to thy warm heart once more ! 

Nigiit falls — my pulse beats low — 
Seek not to quicken, to restore, 
Joy is in every pang — I go, I go ! 

I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 

I meet thy fond look still; 
Keen is the strife of love and death; 
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. 

Yet swells tlie tide of rapture strong, 
Though mists o'ershade mine eye ; 
— Sing, Paean ! sing a conqueror's song ! 
For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die 1" 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 

A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 



The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly 
wliili. reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He 
haa leu his regiment, that of Auvergno, at a short distance, 
and was suddenly surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, 
who threatened him with instant death if he made the least 
sign of their vicinity. Wiih their bayonets at his breast, he 
raised his voice, and calling aloud "A moi, Avergne ! ce sont 
les ennemis '." fell, pierced with mortal blows. 



Alone through gloomy forest shades 

A soldier went by night ; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, 

No star shed guiding light. 

Yet on his vigil's midnight round, 

The youth all chcerly pass'd ; 
Ujichec.k'd by aught of boding sound 

That mutter'd in the blast. 

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? 

— In his far home, perchance ; 
His father's hall, his mother's bower, 

'Midst the gay vines of France : 

Wartdcri-ng from battles lost and won. 

To hear and bless again 
The lolling of the wild Garonne, 

Or murmur of the Seine. 



— Hush ! Hark ! — did stealing steps go by ? 

Came not faint whispers near ? 
No ! the wild wind hath many a sigh, 

Amidst the foliage sere. 

Hark, yet again ! — and from his hand, 
What grasp hath wrench'd the blade ? 

— Oh ! single 'midst a hostile band. 
Young soldier ! thou'rt betray'd! 

" Silence !" in under-tones they cry — 

" No whisper — not a breath ! 
The soimd that warns thy comrades nigh 

Shall sentence thee to death." 

— Still, at the bayonet's point he stood, 

And strong to meet the blow ; 
And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, 

" Arm, arm, Auvergne ! the foe I" 

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call — 

He heard their tumults grow ; 
And sent his dying voice through all — 

^''Auvergne, Auvergne I the foe!" 



NAPLES. 

A SONG OF THE SYREN. 



Then gentle winds arose 

With many a mingled close. 
Of wild jEolian sound and mountain odour keen ; 

Where the clear Baian ocean 

Welters with ai'-like motion 
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green 

Shellev 

Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore, 
Bright City of the Waves I — her magic song 
Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy. 
Fills thy soft summer air : — and while my glance 
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay 
Floats thus o'er Fancy's ear ; and thus to thee, 
Daughter of sunshine ! doth the syren sing. 

"Thine is the glad wave's flashing play. 
Thine is the laugh of the golden day. 
The golden da}', and the glorious night, 
And the vine with its clusters all b:;th'd in light. 
— Forget, forget, that thou art not free ! 

Queen of the summer sea. 

" Favour'd and crown'd of the earth and sky ! 
Thine are all voices of melody, 
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower 
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower ; 
Hark ! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea ; 
— Forget that thou art not free ! 

" Let the wine flow in thy marble halls I 
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls ' 
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle-bough ; 
And cover with roses thy glowing brow ! 
Queen of the day and the summer sea, 

Forget that thou art not free !" 










y 



«'s.« # 



.1' t _ J ' 










y r I 





f 



' nr-^T ir Ush.-.3kiai&SmiLlie 



TT 0=0 tl 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



3e'i 



So doth the Syren sing-, while s])iirkling waves 
Daucr to her clumt. But stonily, mournfully, 
O city ot' the deep ! from Sibyl grots 
Ami Ron, an tombs, tlie echoes of th}"- shore 
Take up the cadence of her strain alone, 
Murmuring — " Thou art not free .'" 



CHORUS. 

•TRANSLATED FROM THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



'In tlie scene where the dying AlcRstis has bid farewell to her 

husband and cliildrcn.) 

(attendants OF ALCESTIS.) 

Peace, mourners, peace ! 
Be husli'd, be silent in this hour of dread ! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pangs ; let tears unheard be shed, 

Cease, voije ot' weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, O friend I 

Upon thy fiiithfiil breast. 
The head that sinks, with mortal pain opprcst ! 

And thou, assistance lend 

To close the languid eye, 
Still beautiful in life's last agony. 

Alas ! how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath. 

Ere 3''et immortal life 

Be won by death ! 
Death I Death I thy work complete I 
Let thy sad hour be fleet, 
Speed in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, the high in heart. 
The adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 

(attendants of admetus.) 

'T is not enough, oh i no ! 
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes ; 

Still must our silent band 

Around him watchful stand, 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, 
That his ear catch not grief's fiuiereal cries. 

Yet, yet hope is not dead, 

All is not lost below. 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Oil when all joy is fled, 

Heaven lends support to those 
Wlio on his care in pious hope repose. 

Tiicn to the blessed skies 
liCt our submissive prayers in chorus rise. 

Pray ! pray ! pray ! 
What other task have mortals, born to tears, 
Whom fate controls, with adamantine sway ? 

O ruler of the spheres ! 
Tove 1 Jove ! enthroned immortally on high, 

Our supplication hear ! 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes,- 
Him, who nor footstep moves nor lifts his eye, 

But as a child, which only knows 

Its father' to revere. 
5* 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 
I. 



near thee, still near TIiEE!* 



Near thee, still near thee ! — o'er thy pathv.'ay 

gliding. 
Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh ; 
Life's veil enfolds tiiee still, our eyes dividing. 
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! 

Not 'midst the festal throng, 
In halls of mirth and song ; 
But when thy thoughts are deepest, 
When holy tears thou wcepest. 

Know then that love is nigh ! 

When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strino-g 

creeping, 
Or the sea-music on the sounding shore. 
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, 
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; 

When every thought and prayer 
We loved to breathe and share, 
On thy full heart returning. 
Shall wake its voiceless yearning; 

Then feel me near once more \ 

Near thee, still near thee ! — trust thy soul's deeu 

dreaming ! 
— Oh ! love is not an earthly rose, to die ! 
Ev'n when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, 
Thine image wanders with me through the sky 

The fields of air are free. 
Yet lonely, wanting thee ; 
But when thy chains are falling. 
When heaven its own is calling. 

Know then thy guide is nigh 



THE SISTERS.t 

a ballad. 



" I GO, sweet sister ; yet, my hearc would imger 

with thee fain. 
And imto every parting gift some deep remem- 

brance chain ; 
Take then the braid of Eastern pearls which onco 

I loved to wear, 
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark wavL3 

of thy hair ! 
Its pale pure brightness will beseem those raven 

tresses well, 
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lono 

convent cell." 



"This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty 
by John Lodge, Esq., for whoso compositions several of the 
author's songs were written. 

t This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative 
. jlieved by music. It was thus performed by !wograci>l'ul anfl 
highly accomplished sisters. 



390 



MRS HEMANS' AVORKS. 



' Oh speak not thus, my Leonor ! why part from 

kindred love ? 
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone — my 

steps no more shall move ! 
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless 

throng ? 
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every 

tone of song ; 
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me 

proudly twine 
Its wreath once more around that brow, that 

queenly brow of thine." 

" Oh wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from 

shelter to detain ! 
Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed, to weary life 

again ? 
Sweet sister, take the golden cross that I have 

worn so long. 
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret 

woe and wrong. 
It could not still my beating heart 1 but may it be 

a sign 
Of peace and hope, my gentle one ! when meekly 

press'd to thine !" 

" Take back, take back the cross of gold, our 
mother's gift to thee, 

It would but of this parting hour a bitter to- 
ken be ; 

With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but 
sadly shine, 

And teli of earthly treasm^es lost, of joy no longer 
mine ! 

Oh ! sister ! if thy heart be thus with buried 
grief oppress'd. 

Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well, as on 
my faithful breast ?" 

" Drge me no more ! a blight hath fallen upon my 

summer years ! 
I should but darken thy yoimg life with fruitless 

pangs and fears ; 
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for 

my sake. 
And sometimes, from its silvery strings, one tone 

of memory wake ! 
Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own 

sweet vesper-hymn. 
And think that I too chant it then, far in my 

cloister dim." 

" Yes, I loill take the silvery lute — and I will sing 

to thee 
A song we heard in childhood's days, ev'n from 

our father's knee. 
Oh sister ! sister ! are these notes amid forgotten 

things ? 
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar 

strings? 
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur 

in the strain ? 
W'nd sister I gentlest Leonor ! say, shall it plead 

m vain 1 



* Leave us not, leave us not ! 

Say not adieu ! 
Have wc not been to thee, 

Tender and true ? 

" Take not thy sunny smile 

Far from our hearth ! 
With that sweet light will fadt 

Summer and mirth. 

" Leave us not, leave us not ! 

Jan thy heart roam ? 
»Vilt thou not pine to hear 

Voices from home ? 

" Too sad our love would be, 

If thou wert gone ! 
Turn to us, leave us not ! 

Thou art our own !" 

" Oh sister, hush that thrilling lute, oh cease that 

haunting lay. 
Too deeply pierce those wild sweet notes, yet, yet 

I cannot stay. 
For weary — weary is my heart! I hear a wbisper'd 

call 
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the 

blossom fall. 
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines 

to dwell 
Where the world's voice can reach no more ! — oh 

calm thee ! Fare thee well I" 



SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 
IL 



OH ! DROOP THOU NOT ! 



They sin who tell us love can die. 

With life all other passions fly; 

All others are but vanity. 

In heaven ambition cannot dwell. 

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell. 

Earthly these passions, as of earth — 

They perish where they drew their birth. 

But love is indestructible ! 

Its holy flame for ever burneth : 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 

Soulhev 

Oh ! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 

Mine still to be ! 
I bore through death, to brighter lands above, 

My thoughts of thee. 

Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 

Our mingled prayer. 
Our suffering love, through lone devoted years, 

Went with me there. 

It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried — 

It was not vain ! 
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, 

I watch again ! 



NATIONAL LYRICS, Aim SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



391 



From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone ; 
In tlie dfcp calm of midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone : 

Not lone, when by tlie haunted stream thou 
wccpest. 

That stream, wliose tone 
JIurmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 

We two have known : 

Not lone, wlien mournfully some strain awaking 

Of days long past. 
From tliy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking. 

Silent and fast : 

Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions tm-ning 

Thy dreamy glance. 
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are 
burning. 

O'er night's expanse. 

My home is near thee, loved one ! and around thee, 

Where'er thou art; 
Ti»o' still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee. 

Doubt not thy heart ! 

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken — 

Let faith be given 
To t,''<? still tones which oft our being waken — 

They are of heaven ! 



MIGNON'S SONG. 



Tn N SLATED FROM GOETHE. 



Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one 
of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Fenella 
is partially imitative!,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, 
from Italy. Her \'ague recollectiens of that land, and of her 
early home, wiih its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons. 
are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the 
followiftg song. Tlie original has been set to exquisite music, 
by Zeller, the frien.' of Goethe. 



Kennst d", las Land wo die Citronen bluhn? 



Know'st thou the land where bloom the Citron 

bow en-, 
Where the g .Id-orange lights the dusky grove ? 
High waves the laurel there, tlie myrtle flowers, 
And thro' a still blue heaven the sweet winds 

rov3 : 
Know'st Uiou it well ? 

— There, there, with thee, 
O friend, loved one! fain my steps would flee. 

Kno'.^'st thou the dwelling ? — there the pillars rise, 
SoP. shines the hall, the painted chambers glow ; 
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes 
To say — "Poor cliild 1 what thus hath wrought 

thee woe ?" 
f now'st thou it well ? 

There, there with thee, 
) mv protector! homewards might I flee ! 



Know'st thou the mountain ? — higli its bridge is 

hung, 
Where the mide seeks thro' mist and cloud his 

way ; 
There lurk the dragon-race, deep eaves among, 
O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent spray 
Know'st thou it well ? 

With thee, with thee, 
There lies my path, O lather ! let us flee ! 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 



Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younga 
Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rccfc u'jove the 
sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace aboul 
the whole tigure, which seems penetrated with the feeling ■ 
utter abandonment. 



Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

My dirge is in thy moan : 
My spirit finds response in thee, 
To its own ceaseless cry — " Alone, alone !" 

Yet send me back one other word, 

Ye tones that never cease ! 
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd, 
And say, dark waters ! will ye give me peace I 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh. 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts — and will the loave reply ? 

Sound on, thou dark unslambering sea 7 
Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world, from thee, 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 

And yet I loved that earth so well 

With all its lovely things ! 
— Was it for this the death-wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings? 

— Let them be silent at my feet ! 

Since broken even as they. 
The heart whose music made them sweet, 
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away. 

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name, 

The laurel-wreath is mine — 
— With a lone heart, a weary fi'ame — 
O restless deep 1 I come to make them thine ! 

Give to that crown, that burning crown. 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown. 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold 

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest 

Thou hast thy love, thy home; 
TJiey wait thee in the quiet nest, 
And I, til' .msought, unwatch'd-lbr —1 too comn 



W2 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



1, with this winged nature fraught, 

These visions wildly free, 
This boundless love, this fiery thought — 
Alone I come — oh ! give me peace, dark sea ! 



DIRGE. 



Where shall we make her grave ? 
— Oh ! where the wild-flowers wave 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There — lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her — 
Now may sleep minister 

Balm for each ill ; 
Low on sweet nature's breast, 
h&\ C'.?s meek heart find rest, 

Deep, deep and still ! 

Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
Faint gales, with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy Ded, 
Where, on a gentle head, 

Storms beat no more ! 

What though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring-rain, 

Plays the solt wind ; 
Yet still, from where she lies, 
Should blessed breathings rise, 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore let song and dew 
Thence, in the heart renew 

Life's vernal glow ! 
And, o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go 1 

Oh ! thi,5i where wild flowers wave, 
Make ye her mossy grave 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
'Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There, lay her there ! 



A SONG OF THE ROSE. 



Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace 

All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed alio scherno, 

D'una stagion volubile e fugace; 

i3 a piu fido Cullor posto in governo, 

Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace. 

Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno. 

Pietro Metastasio. 

Rose ! what dost thou here ? 

Bridal, royal rose ^ 
How, 'midst grief and fear, 
Canst thou thus disclose 
rhat fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf 
glows 1 



Rose ! too much array'd 

For triumphal hours, 
Look'st thou through the shade 

Of these mortal bowers. 
Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one ot all 
flowers ! 

As an eagle soaring 

Through a sunny sky, 
As a clarion pouring 

Notes of victory, 
So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too 
high. 

Thoughts of rapture, flushing 

Youthful poet's cheek ; 
Thoughts of glory, rushing 

Forth in song to break. 
But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too 
weak. 

Yet, oh ! festal rose, 

I have seen thee lying 
In thy bright repose 

Pillow'd with the dying. 
Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood 
was flying. 

Sammer, hope, and love 

O'er that bed of pain. 
Met in thee, yet wove 

Too, too frail a chain 
In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 

Smil'st thou, gorgeous flower ? 
— Oil ! within the spells 

Of thy beauty's power, 
Something dimly dwells. 
At variance with a world of sorrows and fare- 
wells. 

All the soul forth flowing 

In that rich perfume, 
All the proud life glowing * 

In that radiant bloom. — 
Have they no place but here, beneath the o'er, 
shadowing tomb ? 

Crown'st thou but the daughters 

Of our tearful race ? 
— Heaven's ov/n purest waters 
Well might wear the trace 
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace 

Will that clime enfold thee 

With immortal air ? 
Shall we not behold thee 

Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair T 

Yes ! my fancy sees thee 

In that light disclose. 
And its dream thus frees thee 

From the mist of woes, 
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, roya/ 



'A 



NIGIIT-BLOWING FLOWERS. 



CuiLDREM of nigfht ! unfolding- meekly, slowly 
To the sweet breatliings of the shadowy hours, 
'Vhcn dark-blue heavens look sol'tcst and most 

holy, 
rt.nd glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; 

To solemn things and deep, 

To spirit-haunted sleep, 

To thoughts, all purilicd 

From earth, ye seem allied ; 
O dedicated flowers I 

Ve, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, 
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined ; 
'I'ill the mild moon, on high serenely sailing. 
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. 

— So doth love's dreaming heart 

Dwell from the throng apart. 

And but to shades disclose 

The inmost thought which glows 
With its pure life entwined. 

Shot from the sounds wherein the day rejoices. 
To no triumphant song your petals thrill, 
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices 
Rising from hidden streams, wlien all is still. 

So doth lone prayer arise. 

Mingling with secret sighs, 

When grief unfolds, like you, 

Her breast, for heavenly dew 
Li silent hours to fill. 



WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS- 



Cail back your odours, lovely flowers. 
From the night-winds call them back, 

^.nd fold your leaves to the laughing hours: 
Come forth in the sunbeam's track. 

The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest, 

And the honey-bee is gone. 
And all bright things are away to rest, 

Why watcli ye liere alone .' 

[s not your world a mournful one, 
When your sisters close their eyes. 

And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone 
Of song in the starry skies ? 

Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth. 
When it kindles tlie sparks of dew ? 

And tlie thoiisand strains of the forest's mirth 
Shall they gladden all but you ? 

Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out 

On the sunny turf to pl:iv, 
And the woodland child with a fliiry shout 

Goes dnncing on its way ! 
2B 



" Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom 

When the stars give quiet light. 
And let us ofl'cr our faint perfume 

On the silent shrine of night. 

"Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 
To the breeze, when no step is nigh ; 

Oh thus for ever the earth should send 
Her grateful'breath on high ! 

" And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers 

Of hopes unto sorrow given. 
That spring through the gloom of the darkest 
hours. 

Looking alone to heaven !" 



ECHO SONG. 



In thy cavern-hall, 

Echo ! art thou sleeping ? 
By the fountain's fall 

Dreamy silence keeping? 
Yet one soft note borne 
From the shepherd's horn, 
Wakes thee. Echo ! into music leaping ! 
— Strange sweet Echo ! into music leaping. 

Then the woods rejoice, 

Then glad sounds are swelling 
From eacJi sister-voice 

Round thy rocky dwelling ; 
And their sweetness fills 
All the hollow hills. 
With a thousand notes, of one life telling ! 
— Softly mingled notes of one life telling. 

Echo ! in my heart 

Thus deep thoughts are lying, 
Silent and apart. 

Buried, yet undying. 
Till some gentle tone 
Waking haply one, 
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying ! 
— Strange sweet Echo I Even like thee replying, 



THE MUFFLED DRUM.» 



The muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull deep rolling sound 

Which told the hamlets round, 
Of a soldier's burial rite. 

But it told them not how dear. 

In a home beyond the main. 
Was the warrior youth laid low that houi, 

By a mountain stream of Spain. 

The oaks of England waved 
O'er the slumbers of his race. 

But a pino of the Ronceval mademoaa 
Above his last lone place : 

*Sct to beautiful music by .John Lodge Kb 



When tlie muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull deep rolling sound, 

Which eall'd strange echoes round 
To the soldier's burial rite. 

Brief was the sorrowing there 
By the stream from battle red, 

And tossing on its wave the plumes 
Of many a stately head ; 

But a mother — soon to die, 

And a sister long to weep, 
Ev'n then were breathing prayer for him, 

In that home beyond the deep ; 

While the muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
Witii a dull deep rolling sound, 

And the dark pines mourn'd around 
O'er the soldier's burial rite. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKY-LARK. 



Adieu, adieu ! my plaintive anlhem fades 

Pdst the near meadows, over Ihe still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'lis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades. 

Keats. 

Higher still and higher 

From the eartli Ihou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 
The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

Skelley. 

'Midst the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream 
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously. 
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine 
Sent out, through shadowy grass and thick wild 

flowers 
Dim Alabaster gleams — a lonely Swan 
Warbled his deatli-chaunt; and a poet stood 
Listening to that strange music, as it shook 
Tiie lilies on the wave ; and made the pines 
And all the laurels of the haunted shore 
Thrill to its passion. Oh ! the tones were sweet, 
Ev'n painfully — as with the sweetness wrung 
From parting love ; and to the Poet's thought 
This was their language. 

*' Summer, I depart ! 
O light and laughing summer, fare thee well ! 
No song the less thro' thy rich woods will swell, 

For one, one broken heart. 

And fare ye well, young flowers ! 
Ye will not mourn ! ye will shed odour still 
And wave in glory, colouring every rill, 

Known to my youth's fresh hours. 

And ye, bright founts, that lie 
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, 
M^y wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep — 
-P-«'eet waters ! I must die. 



Will ye not send one tone 
Of sorrow tliro' the pines? — one murmur low? 
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know 

That I, your child, am gone ? 

No, ever glad and free I 
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell ; 
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye weU - 

Ye will not mourn for me. 

But thou, sweet boon, too late 
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song ! 
Why com'st thou thus, o'crmasfering rich and 
strong, 

In the dark hour of fate ? 

Only to wake the sighs 
Of echo- voices from their sparry cell ; 
Only to say — " O sunshine and blue skies ! 

O life and love, farewell !" 

Thus flow'd the death-chaunt on ; while mourn. 

fully 
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones 
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream, 
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy, 
Woke to respond : and all the air was fill'd 
With that one sighing sound — " Farewell, Fare- 

well 1" 
— Fill'd with that sound ! high in the calm blue 

heaven 
Ev'n then a Sky-lark hung ; soft summer clouds 
Were floating round him, all transpierced with 

light. 
And, 'midst that pearly radiance, his dark wings 
Quiver'd with song : — such free triumphant song, 
As if tears were not, — as if breaking hearts 
Had not a place below — and thus that strain 
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly. 

"The summer is come; she hath said, ' Rejoice 1' 
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice ; 
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high: 
— Sing, sing thro' the echoing sky ! 

" There is joy in the mountains ; the bright waves 

leap 
Likethe bounding stag when he breaks from sleep; 
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along — ■ 

— Let the heavens ring with song ! — 

" There is joy in the forests ; the bird of night 
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight ; 
But mine is the glory to sunshine given — 
Sing, sing thro' the echoing heav'n i 

" Mine are the wings of the soaring morn. 
Mine are the fresh gales with day-spring born: 
Only young rapture can mount so high — 

— Sing, sing through the echoing say i" 

So those two voices met ; so Joy and Death 
Mingled their accents; and amidst the rush 
Of many thoughts, the listening Poet cried, 
— " Oh I thou art mighty, thou art wonderful. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



3f)6 



Myvsterit js Nature ! Not in thy free range 
Ot' woods and wilds alone, thou hlcndcst thus 
The dirgo-note and the song of festival ; 
but in one heart, one changeful human heart 
— Ay, and within one hour of that strange 

world — 
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones 
To startle and to pierce ! — the dying Swan's 
And the glad Sky-Lark's — Triumph and Des- 
pair !" 



SONGS OF SPAIN.* 



No. I. 
ANCIENT BATTLE SONG. 



Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again I 
Let the high word " Castile" go resounding thro' 

Spain ! 
And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height, 
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight ! 
Wake, wake ! the old soil where thy children re- 
pose, 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes. 
The voices are mighty that swell from the past, 
With Arragnn's cry on the shrill mountain-blast ; 
The ancient Sierras give strength to our tread, 
The'.r pines murmur song where bright blood hath 

been shed. 
— Fling fcrtn the proud banner of Leon again. 
And shout ye "Castile ! to the rescue for Spain !" 



II. 



THE ZEGRI MAID. 



The Zegris were one of the most illustrioua Moorish tribes. 
J'heir exploits and (euds with their ci lebrated rivals the Aben- 
eerragos, form (he subject of many ancient Spanish romances. 



The summer leaves were sighing. 

Around the Zcgri maid. 
To her low sad song replying. 

As it fill'd the olive shade. 
" Alas I for her that loveth 

Her land's, her kindred's foe ! 
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth. 

Should a Zegri's spirit go ? 

" From thy glance, my gentle mother ! 

I sink, with shame oppress'd. 
And the dark eye of my brother 

Is an arrow to my breast.'.' 
— ^Whrrc summer leaves were sighing, 

Thus sang the Zugri maid. 
While the crimson day was dying 

In the whispery olive shade. 



* Writlon for a set t\C airs, entitled " ['(mmsiilar Melodies 
•eiecteil hy Colonel Mixlges, and published by Mfssrs. Gould- 
ins and D'Alinaine, who have perioiltcd tlic reappearance of 
th/j words in this vuluinc 



" And for all this heart's wealth wasted, 

This woe in secret borne. 
This flower in young liie blasted. 

Should I win back aught but scorn ? 
By aught but daily dying 

Would my lone truth be repaid ?" 
— Where the olive leaves were sighing. 

Thus sang the Zegri maid. 



III. 
THE RIO VERDE SONG. 



The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebiated in thf 
old ballad romances of that country for the frequent comriata 
on its banks, between Moor and Christian. The ballad ro 
ferring to this stream, in Percy's Reliques, 
" Gentte river, geulle river, 
Lo ! thy streams are stainM with gore,** 
will be remembered by many readers. 



Flow, Rio Verde ! 

In melody flow ; 
With her that weepeth 

To slumber from woe; 
Bid thy wave's music 

Roll through her dreams. 
Grief ever loveth 

The kind voice of streams 

Bear her lone spirit 

Afar on the sound, 
Back to her childhood. 

Her life's fairy ground ; 
Pass like the whisper 

Of love that is gone — 
Flow, Rio Verde ! 

Softly flow on ! 

Dark glassy water. 

So crimson'd of yore ! 
Love, death, and sorrow 

Know thy green shore. 
Thou shouldst have echoes 

For griePs deepest tone— 
— Flow, Rio Verde, 

Softly flow on. 



IV. 
SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO 



Seek by the silvery Darro, 

Where jasmine flowers have blown ; 
There hath she left no footsteps ? 

— Weep, weep, tlie maid is gone 

Seek where our Lady's image 

Smiles o'er tlie pine-hung steep, 
Hear ye not tiicrc Iter vespers '/ 

— Weep for the parted, weep' 



Seek in the porch where vine-leaves 
O'ershade her father's head ; 
—Are his gray hairs left lonely ? 

Weep ! her bright soul is fled. 



V. 
SPANISH EVENING HYMN. 



Ave ! now let prayer and music 
Meet in love on earth and sea ! 

Now, sweet Mother 1 may the weary 
Turn from this cold world to thee ! 

From the wide and restless waters 
Hear the sailor's hymn arise ! 

From his watch-fire 'midst the mountains, 
Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries ! 

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices 
If o'erburden'd souls there be. 

Dark and silent in their anguish, 
Aid those captives ! set them free ! 

Touch them, every fount unsealing, 
Where the frozen tears lie deep ; 

Thou, the Mother of all Sorrows, 
Aid, oh ! aid to pray and weep ! 



VI. 

BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE. 



Bird, that art singing on Ebro's side. 
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide. 
Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee ? 
Doth song avail thy full heart to free ? 
— Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 
TeacJi me the spell of thy melody. 

Bird ! is it blighted affection's pain, 

Whence the sad sweetness flows thro' thy strain ? 

And is the wound of that arrow still'd. 

When thy lone music the leaves have fiU'd ? 

— Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 

Teach me the spell of thy melody. 



VII. 
MOORISH GATHERING SONG. 



Chains on the cities ! gloom in the air ! 
—Come to the hills ! fresh breezes are there. 
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers ! 
— Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers. 

Come from the Darro ! — changed is its tone ; 
Come where the streams no bondage have known ; 
Wildly and proudly foaming, they leap, 
(singing of freedom from steep to steep. 



* The Zorico is an extremely wild and singu lar antique Moor- 
ish me/ody 



Come from Alhambra ! garden and grove 
Now may not shelter beauty or love. 
Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers! 
— Only the spear and the rock are ours. 



VIII. 
THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. 



We heard thy name, O Mina ! 

Far througii our hills it rang : 
A sound more strong than tempests, 

More keen than armour's clang. 
The peasant left bis vintage. 

The shepherd grasp'd the spear — 
— We heard thy name, O Mina I 

The mountain bands are here. 

As eagles to the day-spring, 

As torrents to the sea, 
From every dark Sierra 

So rush'd our hearts to thee. 

Thy spirit is our banner. 
Thine eye our beacon-sign, 

Thy name our trumpet, Mina ! 
— The momitain bands are thine. 



IX. 
MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST. 



A CANCION. 



Mother ! oh, sing me to rest 
As in my bright days departed : 
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted. 

Songs for a spirit oppress'd. 

Lay this tired head on thy breast 

Flowers from the niglit-dew are closing', 
Pilgrims and mourners reposing — 

— Mother, oh ! sing me to rest ! 

Take back thy bird to its nest ! 

Weary is young life when blighted, 
Heavy this love unrequited; — 

Mother, oh ! sing me to rest ! 



X. 

THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK 
RONCESVALLES. 



There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore ; 

There are murmurs — but not of the torrent, 
Nor the wind, nor tlie pine-forest's roar 



"T is a day of tlie spciir and tlic banner, 
Of armings and liurricd farewells; 

Rise, rise on your niouutaius, yc Spaniards! 
Or start from your old bdttle-dclls. 

There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias, 
That have roU'd with your fathers' free blood ; 

Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty. 

Proud marks where their children have stood ! 



THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. 



Hark ! from the dim chureh tower, 

The deep slow curfew's chime ! 
— A heavy sound unto liall and bower, 

In England's olden time ! 
Sadly 't was heard by him who came 

From the fields of his toil at night, 
And who might not see his own hearth-flame 

In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard. 

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, 
VVliich had cheer'd tlie board witli the mirthful 
word, 

And the red wine's foaming flow ! 
Until that sullen boding knell 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp and lip, and spirit, fell, 

Witli a weight an-d with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then. 

In the wild deer's forest far ! 
No cottage-lamp to the haunts of men, 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul, 

With lone aspirings fill'd. 
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll, 

While the sounds of earth were still'd 1 

And yet a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed, 
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low. 

In pain and sleepless dread ! 
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep 

By the dying babe, her place. 
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, 

Yet not behold its face ! 

Darkness in chieftain's hall ! 

Darkness in peasant's cot ! 
While freedom, under that shadowy pall, 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
Oh ! the fireside's peace we well may prize! 

For blood hath tlow'd like rain, 
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries 

Of England's homes again. 

Heap the' yule-fagots high, 

Till the red ligiit fills the room ! 
It is home's own hour, when the stormy sky 

Grows thick with evening-gloom. 
Gather yc round the holy hearth, 

And by its gladdening blaze, 
Unto tliankful bliss we will ciiange our mirth, 

With a thought of the olden days ! 
.36 



THE CALL TO BATTLE. 



All I then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And galherinc teurs, and ireinblings of distresg. 
And there were sudden parLinga, suuh as press 
The lil'e from out younj; hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated. 

Bi/rou 



The vesper-bell, from chui ch and tower. 

Had sent its dying sound ; 
And the household, in the hush of eve, 

Were met, their porch around. 

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a 

sudden trumpet's power — 
" We rise on all our hil,ls ! come forth ! 't is thy 

country's gathering hour — 
There 's a gleam of spears by every stream, ir» 

each old battlc-dell — 
Come forth, young Juan ! bid thy home a brief 

and proud tarewell !" 

Then the father gave his son the sword. 
Which a hundred fights had seen — 

" Away ! and bear it back, my boy ! 
All that it still hath been! 

" Haste, haste ! the hunters of the foe are up, and 

who shall stand 
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant 

land? 
Our chase shall sound through each defile where 

swept the clarion's blast. 
With the flying footsteps of tJie Moor in stormy 

ages past." 

Then the mother kiss'd her son, with tears 

That o'er his dark locks fell: 
" I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er, 

Yet I stay thee not — Farewell!" 

" One moment ! but one moment give to parting 

thought or word I 
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's 

heart is stirr'd. 
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee m 

the fight. 
To breatlie upon th' avenging sword a spell of 

keener might." 

And a maiden's fond adieu was h' ard. 
Though deep, yet brief and low : 

" In the vigil, in the conflict, love ! 
My prayer shall with thee go !" 

"Come forth! come as the torrent comes wlien 

the winter's chain is burst ! 
So rushes on the land's revenge, in nijht and 

silence nursed — 
The night is past, the silence o'er — on all < ur hill-! 

we rise — 
We wait thee, youth ! sleep, dream no 'uoie' lh»» 

voice of battle cries." 



398 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



There were sad hearts in a darken'd home, 
When th() brave liad left their bower ; 

But the strength of prayer and sacrifice 
Was with them in tiiat hour. 



SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.* 



I. 
AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 



A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shep- 
herd youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wander- 
ings, and affected with various emotions by the sight of a tomb 
vhich beats this inscription: " El in Arcadia ego." 



They have wander'd in their glee 

With the butterfly and bee; 

They have climb'd o'er heathery swells, 

They have wound thro' forest dells; 

Mountain moss hath felt their tread, 

Woodland streams their way have led; 

Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, 

Nurslings of the loneliest brooks. 

Unto them. have yielded up 

Fragrant bell and starry cup: 

Chaplets are on every brow — 

— What hath stay'd the wanderers now ? 

Lo ! a gray and rustic tomb, 

Bower'd amidst the rich wood-gloom; 

Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, 

— ^"I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 

There is many a summer sound 

That pale sepulchre arotmd ; 

Thro' the shade young birds aift glancing. 

Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing ; 

Glimpses of blue festal skies 

Pouring in when soft winds rise ; 

Violets o'er the turf below 

Shedding out their warmest glow ; 

Yet a spirit not its own 

O'er the greenwood now is thrown ! 

Something of an undcr-note 

Thro' its music seems to float. 

Something of a stillness gray 

Creeps across the laughing day : 

Something, dimly from those old words felt, 

— ^" I too. Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt.' 

Was some gentle kindred maid 
In that grave with dirges laid ? 
Some fair creature, with the tone 
Of whose voice a joy is gone, 
Leaving melody and mirth 
Poorer on this alter'd earth ? 
Is it thus ? that so they stand. 
Dropping flowers from every hand? 
Plowers, and lyres, and gather'd store 
Of red wild fruit prized no more ? 



* Of these songs, the ones entitled " Ye a\c not miss'd, fair 
•vers ■ the " Willow Song," " Leave me nol yet," and the 
IJrange Bough," are in the possession of Mr. Willis, by whom 
n> will be published with music. 



— No ! from that bright band of morn. 

Not one link hath yet been t->rn; 

'T is the shadovi' of tlie tomb 

Falling o'er the suinmcr-bloom, 

0"er the flush of love and life 

Passing with a sudden strife ; 

'T is the low prophetic breath 

Murmuring iroin that house of death. 

Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can mei^ 

" I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 



II. 
THE WANDERING WIND. 



The Wind, the wandering Wind 

Of tJie golden summer eves — 
Whence is the thrilling magic 

Of its tones amongst the leaves ' 
Oh ! is it from the waters, 

Or from the long, tall grass ? 
Or is it from the hollow rocks 

Thro' which its breathings pass ? 

Or is it from the voices 

Of all in one combined, 
That it wins the tone of mastery ? 

The Wind, the wandering Wind ! 
No, no ! the straiage sweet accents 

That with it come and go. 
They are not from the osiers. 

Nor the fir-trees whispering low. 

They are not of the waters, 

Nor of the cavern'd hill : 
'T is the human love within us 

That gives them power to thrill. 
They toucli the links of memory 

Around our spirits twined, 
And we start, and weep, and tremble, 

To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 



III. 
YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS 

Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late wer«j 
spreading 
The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot 
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding. 
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss 
you not. 

Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water, 
O lily ! whence thy cup of pearl is gone ; 

The bright wave mom-ns not for its loveliest 
daughter. 
There is no sorrow in the wind's low t(,ne. 

And thou, meek hyacinth ! afar is roving 

The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd; 

Cradled ye were, fair flowers ! 'midst all Ihinga 
loving, 
A joy to all — yet, yet, ye are not miss'd 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC, 



39y 



Yc, iJinf were born to lend the sunbeam g-ladncss, 

And the winds fragrance, wandering where 

they Hst! 

-Oh I it were breathing words too deep in sadness. 

To say — earth's human tiovvers not more are 

niiss'd. 



IV. 
WILLOW SONG. 



WrLT.ow I in tliy breezy moan, 

I ean hear a deeper tone; 

Thro' tliy leaves come wliispcring low 

Taint sweet sounds of long ago. 

Willow, sighing Willow! 

Many a mournful tale of old, 
Heart-sick love to thee hat!i told, 
Gathering I'rom thy golden bough 
Leaves to cool his burning brow. 

Willow, sighing Willow ! 

Many a swan-like song to thee 
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ! 
Many a lute its last lament 
Down thy moonlight strean. hath sent: 
Willow, sighing Willow I 

Therefore, wave and murmur on ! 
Sigh for sweet affections gone, 
And for tuneful voices fled. 
And for love whose heart hath bled. 

Ever, Willow, Willow ! 



V. 

LEAVE ME NOT YET! 



Leave me not yet — through rosy skies from far. 
But now the song-birds to their nest return; 

The quivering image of the first pale star 
On the dim lake yet scarce begins to burn: 
Leave me not yet ! 

Not yet ! — oh hark ! low tones from hidden 
streams, 
Piercing the shivery leaves, ev'n now arise; 
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, 
They are of vesper hymns and harmonies : 
Leave me not yet! 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear 
love I 
By day simt up m their own still recess, 
They wait for dews on eartii, for stars above, 
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness ; 
liRa.ve me not yet! 



VI. 
THE ORANGE- BOUGH. 



On ! bring me one sweet Orange-bougli, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms drcst, 
And bind it. Mother ! on my breast. 

Go, seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odours I must breathe no more ; 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 

Oh ! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer 
And wild farewell, are lingering there ; 
Each leafs light whisper hath a tone. 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life's parting sweetness round my head, 
And bind it. Mother ! on my breast, 
When I am laid in lonely rest. 



VII. 
THE STREAM SET FREE. 



Flow on, rejoice, make music, 

Bright living stream set free ! 
The troubled haunts of care and strife 

Were not for thee ! 

The woodland is thy country, 

Thou art all its ov\'n again ; 
The wild birds are thy kindred race, 

That fear no chain. 

Flow on, rejoice, make music 

Unto the glistening leaves ! 
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds 

And golden eves. 

Once more the holy starlight 

Sleeps calm upon thy breast, 
Whose brightness bears no token more 

Of man's unrest. 

Flow, and let free-born music 

Flow with thy wavy line. 
While the stock-dove's lingering loving voios 

Comes blent with thine. 

And the green reeds quivering o'er theo. 

Strings of the forest-lyre. 
All fiird with answering spirit-scunda. 

In joy respire. 

Yet 'midst thy song's glad changes. 

Oh I keep one pitying tone 
For gentle hearts that bear to thee 

Their sadness lone. 



\\— 



One sound of all tlie deepest, 
To bring, like healing dew, 

.4 sense that nature ne'er forsakes 
The meek and true. 

Then, then, rejoice, make music, 
Thou stream, thou glad and free ! 

The shadows of all glorious flowers 
Be set in thee. 



OH ! SKY-LARK FOR THY WING. 



VIII. 
THU SUMMER'S CALL. 



Come away ! the sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers . 
O'er the very waters now, ' 

In their play. 
Flowers are shedding beaut3''s glow- 
Come away ! 
Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream — 
Come away ! 

All the air is fill'd with sound. 
Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 
Murmurs through tlie shadowy grass 

Lightly stray ; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass — 

Come away ! 
Where the bee's deep music swells 
From the trembling fox-glove bells — 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along — 

Come away ! 
Where the boughs with dewy gloom 
Darken each thick bed of bloom — 

Come away ! 

In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love-hue glows ; 
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night 

Sheds a ray. 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright — 

Come away ! 
Where the fiiiry cup-moss lies. 
With the wild-wood strawberries, 

Come away I 

Now each tree by summer crown'd, 
Sheds its own rich twilight round ; 
Glancing there from sun to shade, 
Bright wings play ; 
\ There the deer its couch hath made 
i J Come away ! 

j Where the smooth leaves of the lime 
I'-JIisten m their honey time — 
,'■ Come away — awav ! 



Oh ! Sky-lark, for thy wing ! 
Thou bird of joy and light, 
That I might soar and sing 
At heaven's empyreal height ! 

With the heathery hills beneath me, 

Whence the streams in glory spring. 
And the pearly clouds to wreathe me, 
Oh sky-lark ! on thy wing ! 

Free, free from earth-born fear, 

I would range the blessed skies. 
Through the blue divinely clear. 
Where the low mists cannot rise ! 
And a thousand joyous measures 

From my chainless heart sJiould spring 
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures, 
As I wander'd on thy wing. 

But oh ! the silver chords, 

That around the heart are spun. 
From gentle tones and words. 

And kind eyes that make our sun ! 
To some low sweet nest returning, 
How soon my love would bring. 
There, there the dews of morning. 
Oh, sky-lark ! on thy wing ! 



GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 



That voice re-measures 
Whatever tones and meliincholy pleasures 
The things of nature utter ; birds or trees, 
Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 

Coleridge. 



I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind, 

A song of many tones — though one full soul 

Breathed tlirough them all imploringly ; and made 

All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves 

And low responsive reeds and waters thrill, 

As with the consciousness of human prai'cr. 

— At times the passion-kindled melody 

Might seem to gush from Sapplio's fervent heart, 

Over the wild sea-wave; — at times the strain 

Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 

Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ; 

And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, 

A graver sound was mingled, a deep note 

Of Tasso's holy lyre ; — yet still the tones 

Were of a suppliant ; — " Leave me not .'" was still 

The burden of their music ; and I knew 

The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, 

Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world, 

Hath ever breathed to Love. 

They crown me with the glistening crown, 
Borne from a deatiilcss tree ; 
I hear the pealing music of renown — 
O Love ! forsake me not ! 
Mine were a lone dark lot, 
Bereft of thee ! 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



4(Ji 



Tlicy tell mc that my soul can throw 
A g"lory o'er the cartli ; 
From tliec, from thee, is caught that golden glow ! 
Shed by thy gentle eyes, 
It gives to flower and skies, 
A bright new birth ! 

Thence gleams the path of morning, 
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone I 

Thence to its heart of hearts, the rose is burning 
\Vith lustre not it^own! 
Thence every wood-recess 
Is fill'd with loveliness, 
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known. 

I see all beauty by the ray 
That streamoth trora thy smile ; 
Oh ! bear it, bear it not away ! 

Can that sweet light beguile ? 
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems. 
To linger long by earthly streams ; 
I clasp it with th' alloy 
Of fear 'midst quivering joy. 
Yet must I perish if the gift depart — 
Leave me not, Love I to thine own beating heart ! 

The music from my lyre 
With thy swifl step would flee ! 

The world's cold breath would quench the 
starry fire- 
In my deep soul — a temple fill'd with thee ! 
Scal'd vi'ould the fountains lie, 
The waves of harmony. 
Which tliou alone canst free ! 

Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken, 

Whence the oracle had fled; 
Like a harp which none might waken 

But a mighty master dead ; 
Like the vase of a perfume seatter'd, 

Such would my spirit be ; 
So mute, so void, so shatter'd. 

Bereft of thee ! 

Leave me not, Love ! or if this earth 

Yield not for thee a home. 
If the bright summer land of thy pure birth 
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers — 
"■Comer 
Then, with the glory from the rose. 
With tiie sparkle from the stream. 
With the hght thy rainbow-presence throws 
Over the poet's dream ; 
With all the Elysian hues 
Thy pathway that suff'use. 
With joy, v.'ith music, from the fading grove. 
Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing s\veet 
Love 1 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 



Bird of the greenwood ! 

(-•h 1 wliy art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 

Flowers bloom not near. 
36* 



All the sweet waters 

Far hence are at play — 

Bird of tlie greenwood 1 
Av/ay, away ! 

Where the mast quivers, 
Thy peace will not be, 

As 'midst the waving 
Of wild rose and tree. 

How should'st thou battle 
With storm and with spray' 

Bird of the greenwood ! 
Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land. 
Where by the soutii-wind 

Vine-leaves are fann'd ? 

'Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

"Chide not my lingering 
Where storms are dark; 

A hand that hath nursed me 
Is in the bark ; 

A heart that hath eherish'd 
Through winter's long day, 

So I turn from the greenwood, 
Away, away !" 



MUSIC AT A DEATH-BED 



"Music! why thy power emploj 
Only fur the sons of joy ? 
Only for ihe smiling guests 
At natal, or at nuptial t'ciists ? 
Rather thy lenient numbers pour 
On those whom secret griel's devour , 
And with some sofily-wliisper'd air 
Smooth tlie brow of dumb despair !* 

IVarlun, fium Eunpidet 



Bring music ! stir the brooding air 

With an ethereal breath ! 
Bring sounds my struggling soul to boar 

Up from the couch of death ! 

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay. 

Such as the southern breeze 
Might waft, at golden fall of day, 

O'er blue transparent seas ! 

Oh no ! not such ! that lingering spell 

Would lure me back to life. 
When my wean'd heart luith said farewell 

And pass'd the gates of strife. 

Let not a sigh of human love 
Blend with the song its lone I 

Let no disturbing echo move 
One that must die alone I 



t02 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But pour a solemn-breathing strain 
Fill'd with the soul of prayer; 

8.et a life's conflict, fear, and pain, 
And trembling hope, be there. ' 

Deeper, yet deeper ! in my thought 

Lies more prevailing sound. 
A harmony intensely Iraught 

With pleading more profound. 

A passion into music given, 

A sweet, yet piercing cry ; 
A breaking heart's appeal to heaven, 

A bright faith's victory I 

Deeper ! Oh ! may no richer power 

Be in those notes enshrined ! 
Can all which crowds on earth's last hour 

No fuller language find ? 

Away! and hush the feeble song, 

And let the chord be still'd ! 
Far in another land ere long 

My dream shall be fulfill'd. 



MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 



" I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schvverin — a plain quiet 
cenotaph, erected in the tiiiddle of a wide cornfield, on the very 
spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in 
arms. He fell here al eighty years of age, at the head of liis 
own regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat 
waa in the leathern saddle — his f.iot in the iron stirrup — his 
fingers reined the young rvar-horss to the last." — JVotes and 
Rejicctions during a Ramble in Germany, 



Tiiou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, 

And a banner in thy hand ; 
Thou wert laid to rest from tliy battles there. 

By a proudly mournful band. 

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast, 

Thy long bright years had sped ; 
And a warrior's bier was thine at last. 

When the snows had crown'd thy head. 

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! 

Brothers, and friends, percJiance; 
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, 

And light was in thy glance. 

The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high, 
And thy voice the war-horse knew ; 

And the first to arm, wlien the foe was nigh, 
Wtu-t thou, the bold and true. 

N"ow mayest thou slumber — thy work is done — 

Tlioti of the well-worn sword ! 
From the stormy figlit in tliy fame thou'rt gone. 

But not to the festal board. 

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, 

^^'here fiery blood hath flow'd : — 
Oh ' lover ol' battle and trumpet-sound ! 

Th<ju art couch'd in a still abode J 



A quiet home fi*om the noonday's glare, 
And the breath of the wintry blast — 

Didst thou toil thro' the days of thy silvery hair 
To win thee but this at last ? 



WHERE IS THE SEA? 

SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 



A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and 
called upon to admire its beauty, only replied—" Tiie aca— 
where is it?" 



Where is the sea ? — I languish here — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 
With all its barks in fleet career. 

And flags, and breezes free. 

I miss that voice of waves, which first 
Awoke my childhood's glee ; 

The measured chime — the thundering burst- 
Where is my own blue sea ? 

Oh ! rich your myrtle's breath may rise, 

Soft, soft your winds may be ; 
Yet my sick heart within me dies — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute — 

I hear the whispering tree; 
The echoes of my soul are mute : 

— Where is my own blue sea ? 



SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 



These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been 
set to music by llie author's sister, and are in the possession of 
Mr. Willis, by whose permission they are here published. 



IHTRODUCTIOIT. 

One hour for distant homes to weep 
'Midst Afric's burning sands. 

One silent sunset hour was given 
To the slaves of many lands. 

They sat beneath a lonely palm, 
In the gardens of their lord; 

And mingling with the fountain's tune. 
Their songs of exile pour'd. 

And strangely, sadly, did those lays 

Of Alp and Ocean sound. 
With Afric's wild red skies above, 

And solemn wastes around. 

Broken with tears were oft their tones, 
And most when most they tried 

To breathe of hope and liberty, 
From hearts that inly died. 

So met the sons of many lands, 
Parted by mount and main ; 

So did they sing in brotherhood, 
Made kindred by the chaiti. 



NATIOiNAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



40J 



I. 

THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. 



In Uic proud old fanes of England 

]\Iy warrior fathers lie, 
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust 
Willi gorgeous blazonry. 

But thou, but thou, my brother ! 
O'er thee dark biliovvs sweep. 
The best and bravest heart of all 
Is shrouded by the deep. 

In the old high wars of England 

My noble lathers bled ; 
For her lion kings of lance and spear. 
They went down to the dead. 
But thou, but thou, my brother ! 
T/iy life-drops flow'd for me — 
Would I were with tlice in thy rest, 
Young sleeper of tlie sea. 

In a sheltcr'd home of England 

Our sister dwells alone. 
With quick heart listening for the sound 
Of footsteps that are gone. 
She little dreams, my brother! 

Of the wild fate we have found; 
I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave. 
Thou, by the dark seas bound. 



II. 
THE ALPINE HORN. 



The Alpine horn ! the Alpine horn 1 
Oh I througii my native sky, 

Might I but hoar its deep notes borne, 
Once more, — but once, — and die 1 

Yet, no ! 'midst breezy hills thy breath, 

So full of liope and niorn. 
Would win mc from the bed of death — 

O joyous Alpine horn ! 

But here the echo of that blast. 

To many a battle known. 
Seems mournfully to wander past, 

A wild, shrill, wailing tone ! 

Haunt me no more ! for slavery's air 

Thy proud notes were not born ; 
riie dream but deepens my despair — 
Be hush'd, thou Alpine horn I 



III. 
O YE VOICES. 



Never, never ! Spring hath smiled and parted 
Oft since then your fond farewell was said ; 

O'er tlic green turf of the gentle-hearted. 

Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shtd, 
Oil again. 

Or if still around my heart ye linger, 

Yet, sweet voices ! there must change have 
come ; 
Years have quell'd the free soul of the singer, 
Vernal tones shall greet the Wanderer home, 
Ne'er again! 



O tb roiccs round my own hearth singing! 

A-- the winds of May to memory sweet, 
Migh I yet return, a worn heart i)ringing, 

Wi uld those vernal tones the Wanderer greet, 
Once again? 



IV. 
I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 



I DREAM of all things free ! 

Of a gallant, gallant bark, 
That sweeps through storm and sea, 

Like an arrow to its mark ! 
Of a stag tliat o'er the hills 

Goes bounding in his glee ; 
Of a thousand flashing rills — 

Of all things glad and free ! 

I dream of some proud bird, 

A bright-eyed mountain king ! 
In my visions I have heard 

The rushing of his wing. 
I follow some wild river. 

On whose breast no sail may be ; 
Dark woods around it shiver — 

— I dream of all things free ! 

Of a happy forest child. 

With tiie fawns and flowers at play 
Of an Indian 'midst the wild. 

With the stars to guide his way: 
Of a chief his warriors leading. 

Of an areiier's greenwood tree : — 
— My heart in chains is bleeding 

And I dream of all things free ! 



V. 
FAR O'ER THE SEA. 



Where are the vintage songs 

Wandering in glee ? 
Where dance the peasant bands 

Joyous and free ? 
Under a kind blue &ky. 
Where doth my birth-place lie ? 

— Far o'er the sea ! 

Where floats the myrtle-scent 

O'er vale and lea. 
When evening calls the dove 

Homewards to flee'' 
Wliere doth tlie orange gleam 
Soft on my nn-ive stream? 

— Far o'e; the sea ! 



404 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Wlicre are sweet eyes of love 

Watching for rac ? 
Where o'er the cabin roof 

Waves the green tree ? 
Where spealcs the vesper-chime 
Still of a lioly time ? 

— Far o'er the sea ! 

Dance on, ye vintage bands, 

Fearless and free ! 
Still fresh and greenly wave, 

My fatiier's tree ! 
Still smile, ye kind blue skies ! 
Though your son pines and dies 

Far o'er the sea ! 



VI. 
THE INVOCA.TION. 



Oh ! art thou still on earth, my love ? 

My only love ! 
Or smiling in a brighter iiome, 

Far, iar above ? 

Oh ! is thy sweet voice fled, my love ? 

Thy light step gone ? 
And art thou not, in E;irtli or HeaVen, 

Still, still my own ? 

I see thee with thy gleaming hair, 
In midnight dreams ! 

But cold, and clear, and spirit-like. 
Thy soil eye seems. 

Peace, in thy saddest hour, my love I 
Dwelt on tliy brow ; 

But something mournfully divine 
There shineth now ! 

And silent ever is thy lip. 

And pale thy cheek ! — 
DJl ! art thou Eartli's, or art tlion Heaven's 

Speak to me, speak ! 



VIT. 
TIIE SONG OF HOPE. 



Droop not, my brothers ! I hear a glad strain — 
We shall burst fortli like streams from the win. 

tor-night's chain ; 
A flag is unfurl'd, a bright star of the sea, 
A ransom approaches — wc yet shall be free ! 

Where the pines wave, where the light chamois 
, leaps, 

\' l'(!re the lone eagle hath built on the steeps, 
VVIicre the snows glisten, tlie mountain rills foam, 
Free as tjie falcon's wing, yet shaJl wc roam. 



Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks 

are met, 

Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet ! 
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea, — 
Droop not, my brothers ! we yet shall be free ' 



THE IVY SONG. 



Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves, gathered from th» 
ruined Castle of Rheinfeis on the Rhine. 



Oh! how could fancy crown with thee. 

In ancient days, the God of Wine, 
And bid tJiee at the banquet be 

Companion of tlic vine ? 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er. 
Where song and beaker once went round. 

But now are known no more. 

Where long-fallen gods recline, 
There the place is thine. 

Tlie Roman on his battle-plains, 

W])crc Kings before his eagles bent. 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 

Siiadow'd the victor's tent : 
Tliough sliining there in deathless green, 

Triumphally thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lov'st the silent scene 

Around tlie victor's grave. 

Urn and sculpture half divine 
Yield their place to thine. 

The cold halls of the regal dead. 

Where lone th' Italian sunbeams dwell, 
Wlierc liollow sounds the ligiitest tread — 

Ivy ! they know thee well! 
And far above the festal vine, 

Thou wav'st where once proud banners hung 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine 

— The Rhine, still fresh and young I 
Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine 
Ivy! all are thine! 

High from the fields of air look down 

Those eyries of a vanish 'd race, 
Where harp, and battle, and renown. 

Have pass'd, and left no trace. 
But thou art there ! — serenely bright. 

Meeting the mountain storms with bloom, 
Tliou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 

Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
Ivy, Ivy ! all are thine, 
Palace, hearth, and shrine. 

'T is still the same ; our pilgrim tread 
O'er classic plains, through deserts ir^n. 

On the mute path of ages fled. 
Still meets decay and thee. 

And still let man his fabrics rear, 
August in beauty, stern in power. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



jrs 



Days pass — tliou Ivy never sere !* 
And tliou sii:jll li;ivo tuy dower. 

All arc tliine, or must bo thine — 
— Tciriplu, pillar, shrine ! 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 



" I desire as I look on these, the ornaincnts and children of 
Eurlh. Id know whether, indeed, Buch things 1 shnll see no 
n,^re 7 — whether they have no hiienesfi, no archetype in the 
World in which my future home is to be cast ? or whether they 
tuvc Iheir images above, only wrought in a more wondrous 

in;! delitjhlful mould." Cuniicrsalions with an Anibitiuns 

Student in ill k::allk. 



Bkar them not from grassy dolls, 
Where wild bees have honey-cells ; 
Not from where sweet water-sounds 
Tiirill the greenwood to its bounds : 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of Death ! 

Kindred to the breeze they are. 
And the g-low-wonn's emerald star 
And the bird, whose song- is free, 
And the many-whispering tree : 
Oh ! too deep a love, and vain. 
They would win to earth again. 

Spread them not before the eyes. 

Closing fast on summer skies ! 

Woo thou not the spirit back, 

From its lone and viewless track. 

With the bright things which have birth 

Wide o'er all the colour'd earth ! 

With the violet's breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ; 
From the lily's pcarl-eup shed, 
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed ; 
Dreams of youth — of spring-time eves — 
Music — beauty — all she leaves ! 

Hush ! 't is tliou that dreaming art. 
Calmer is her gentle heart. 
Yes I o'er fountain, vale, and grove, 
Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love ; 
But that passion, deep and true, 
Knows not of a last adieu. 

Types of lovelier forms than these, 
In their fragile mould she sees ; 
Shadows of yet richer things, 
Born beside immortal springs. 
Into fuller glory wrought. 
Kindled by surpassing thought ! 

Therefore, in the lily's leaf. 
She can read no word of grief; 
O'er the woodbine slie can dwell. 
Murmuring not — Farewell ! farewell! 
And her dim, yet speaking eye, 
Greets the violet solemnly. 



Therefore, once, and yet again, 
Strew them o'er her bed ot pain ; 
From her chamber take the gloom, 
With a light and Hush of bloom • 
So should one depart, who goes 
Where no Death can touch the rose 



THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S. 



The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is 
almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and 
scientific skill. — ^The majestic harmony of efl'ect thus produced 
is not a little deepened by the character of the Cliurch itself 
which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly 
helmets and banners, and old monumental etfigies, seems all 
filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrou.s anliquily. 
The imagination never fails to recognize it as a filling scena 
for high solemnities of old ; — a place to witness the solitary 
vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at Iho 
burial of some warlike King. 



All the choir 
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas. 



* Ye Myrtles brown, and Ivy never sere. I^vcidea 



Again, oh ! send that anthem peal again 
Thro' the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky ! 
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain. 
The banners thrill as if with victory ! 

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might havs 

heard. 
While artu'd for fields of chivalrous renown ; 
Such the high hearts of Kings might well have 

stirr'd. 
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown 

Those notes once more ! — they bear my sou 

away. 
They lend the wings of morning to its flight 
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay, 
Whispers one tone to win me from that height. 

All is of Heaven ' — Yet wherefore to mine eye 
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source ' 
Ev'n while the waves of that strong harmony 
Roll with my spirit on their sounding cotu-se ! 

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal 
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower ? 
— Oh ! is it not, that humbly we may feel 
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour ? 



KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH 
MOTHER OVER HER SON. 



This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style ol tlio 
Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild .int 
deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those »' 
the national music. 



Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling oi- 
Darker is thy repose, m y fair-haired son ! 
Si] ent and da if 



«06 



MRS. liEMANS' WORKS. 



There is blood upon the tlireshold 

Wlience tliy step went forth at morn, 
Like a dancer's in its fleetness, 

my bright first-born ! 

A-t the glad sound of that footstep, 
My heart witliin me smiled ; 

— Thou wert brought me baek all silent 
On thy bier, my child ! 

Dirkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-liair'd son ! 

Silent and dark. 

I thought to see thy children 
Laugh on me with thine eyes ; 

But my sorrow's life is lonely 
Where my life-flower lies. 

I shall go to sit beside thee, 

Thy kindred's graves among, 
I shall hear tlie tall grass whisper — 

1 shall hear it not long ! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son ! 

Silent and dai-k. 

And I too shall find slumber 
With my lost one in the earth : 

— Let none light up the ashes 
Again on our hearth ! 

Let the roof go down ! — let silence 

On tlie home for ever fall. 
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not 

His lone mother's call ! 

Darkly the cloud of nigiit comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son ! 
Silent and dark. 



THE ANGELS' CALL. 



"Hark! they whisper ! angels say 
Sister spirit, come away '." 



Come to the land of peace ! 
Come where tlie tempest hath no longer sway, 
I'he shadow passes from the soul away, 

The sounds of weeping cease I 

Fear hath no dwelling there ! 
• Jonie to the mingling of repose and love, 
Bieathed by tlie silent spirit of the dove 

Through the celestial air ! 

Come to the bright and blest 
And crown'd for ever I — 'midst tliat shining band, 
^qtiici'd to heaven's own wreath from every land. 

Thy spiri shali find rest ! 



Thou hast been long alone : 
Come to tliy motiicr I — on the sabbath shove. 
The heart that rock'd thy childhood back one 
more 

Shall take its wearied one. 

In silence wert thou left ! 
Come to thy sisters ! — joyously again 
All the home voices, blest in one sweet strain, 

Shall greet their long-bereft. 

Over thine orphan head 
The storm jiath swept as o'er a willow's bough 
Come to thy iather ! — it is finish'd now ; 

Thy tears have all been shed. 

In thy divine abode 
Change finds no pathway, mem'ry no dark trace, 
And, oh ! bright victory — death by love no place ! 

Come, Spirit ! to thy God ! 



THE SPELL. 



There 's such a glory on thy cheek. 
And such a magic power around thee, 

That, if I would, I could not break 

TJie spell with which thine eyes have bound me 

Though all my stubborn heart rebel 
Against the thraldom of thy frown. 

The tameless spirit thou canst quell. 
And keep the bursting madness down. 

I vainly struggle to be free ; 

I rouse that withering pride in vain. 
Whose bliglit might change my love for ttiee 

To fiery hate or cold disdain. 

I loathe my very soul, that bears 

To drink thy poisonous love-draughts up 

Until my frenzied spirit swears 
To dash to earth the dazzling cup. 

Yet every effort of my heart 

To cast thee off but draws tliee nearer, 
And rage and agony impart 

A venom-charm that makes thee dearer. 



FAR AWAY.* 



Far away ! — my home is far away. 

Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore , 

In tlic woods I hear my brother's play, 

'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, 
Far away ! 



*This, toftelher with five other songs, have been set to mliBif 
of great merit by J. Zeugbeer Herrmann, and H. !<". C, and 
are pubbshed in a set by Mr. Power, who has given permissio- 
for the appearance of the words in this volume. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



401 



Far away ! my dreams arc far away, 

Wlicii, at inkliiight, stars and shadows reign; 

"Gentle child," my mother seems to say, 

" Follow mc where lionic siiall smile again I" 
Far away ! 

Far away ! my hope is fiir away, 

Wlicre love's voice young gladness may restore; 
— O thou dove ! now soaring through the day, 

Lend mc wings to reach that belter shore, 
Far away. 



THE LYRE AND FLOWER. 



A JCYRE its plaintive sweetness pour'd 

Forth on the wild wind's track ; 
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord, 
But gave no music back, 
— Oh ! child of song ! 

Bear hence to heaven thy fire ! 
What hop'st thou from the reckless throng ? 
Be not like that lost lyre ! 
Not like that lyre ! 

A flower its leaves and odours cast 

On a swift-rolling wave ; 
rii' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd. 
And back no treasure gave. 
— Oh ! heart of love ! 

Waste not thy precious dower! 
Turn to thine only home above, 
Be not like that lost flower ! 
Not like that flower. 



SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 



Sister ! since I met thee last, 
O'er thy brow a change hath past. 
In the softness of thine eyes 
Deep and still a shadow lies ; 
From thy voice there thrills a tone. 
Never to thy childhood known ; 
Through thy soul a storm hath moved, 
Gentle sister, thou hast loved ! 

Yes ! thy varying check hath caught 
Hues too bright from troubled thought ; 
Far along the wandering stream, 
Thou art followed by a dream ; 
In the woods and valleys lone, 
Music haunts thee not tliine own : 
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 
Sister, thou hast loved in vain ! 

Tell me not the tale, my flower ! 
On my bosom pour that shower ! 
Tell mc not of kind thoughts wasted 
Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 
Wring not forth one burning word. 
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd ! 
Home alone can give thee rest. 
— Weep, sweet sister, on my breast! 



THE LONELY BIRD. 

From a ruin thou art singing. 

Oh! lonely, lonely bird! 
The soft blue air is ringing. 

By thy summer music stirr'd ; 
But all is dark and cold beneath, 

Where harps no more are heard : 
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ? 

Thy song flows, richly swelling, 

To a triumph of glad sounds. 
As from its cavern dwelling 

A stream in glory bounds ! 
Though the castle echoes catch no tone 

Of human step or word, 
Tho' the fires be quench 'd and the feasting done 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ! 

How can that flood of gladness 

Rush through thy fiery lay, 
From the haunted place of sadness. 

From the bosom of decay? 
While dirge-notes in the breeze's moan, 

Through the ivy garlands heard, 
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, 

Oh ! lonely, lonely bird ! 

There's many a heart, wild sin'ger, 

Like thy forsaken tower, 
V/herc joy no more may linger. 

Where love hath left his bower : 
And there's many a spirit e'en like thee, 

To mirth as lightly stirr'd. 
Though it soar from ruins in its glee, 

Oh '. lonely, lonely bird ! 



DIRGE AT SEA. 



Sleep ! — we give thee to the wave, 
Red with life-blood from the brave, 
Thou shah find a noble grave. 
Fare thee well ! 

Sleep ! thy billowy field is won. 
Proudly may the funeral gun, 
'Midst the hush at set of sun. 
Boom thy knell ! 

Lonely, lonely is thy bed,- 
Never there may flower be shed. 
Marble rear'd, or brother's head 
Bow'd to weep. 

Yet thy record on the sea, 
Borne through battle high and fxe© 
Long the red cross flag shall Ix. 
Sleep ! O sleco , 




PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR. 



O SOFT star of the west ! 

Gleaming far, 
Thou'rt guiding all things home, 

Gentle star ! 
Thou bring'st from rock and wave, 

The sea-bird to her nest, 
The hunter from the hills. 
The fisher back to rest. 
Light of a thousand streams, 

Gleaming far ! 
O soft ''tar of the west. 

Blessed star ! 

No bowery roof is mine, 

No hearth of love and rest, 
Yet guide me to my shrine, 

() soft star of the west ! 
There, there, my home shall be. 

Heaven's dew shall cool my breast, 
When prayer and tear gush free, 

— O soft star of the west I 

O soft star of the west. 

Gleaming far ! 
Thou'rt guiding all thmgs home, 

Gentle star ! 
Shine from thy rosy heaven. 

Pour joy on earth and sea ! 
Shine on, though no sweet eye^ 
Look forth to watch for me ! 
Light of a thousand streams. 

Gleaming far ! 

O soft star of the west ! 

Blessed star! 



THE SPARTAN'S MARCH. 



" The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into bat- 
tle," says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the 
rage of their warriors. Their cliarging-step was made "to 
the Dorian mood ol' tlutes and soft recorders." The valour of 
a Spartan was too liighly tempered to require a stunning or 
rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the 
ii)m."— -Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Orecks. 



'T WAS morn upon the Grecian hills, 
Where peasants dress'd the vines. 

Sunlight was on Cithseron's rills, 
Arcadia's rocks and pines. 

And orightly, through his reeds and flowers, 

Eurotas wander'd by, 
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 

0>' solemn harmony. 

Wa* it the hunter's choral strain 
T>> the woodland-goddess pour'd ? 

Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane 
Strike tine full sounding chord ? 



But helms were glancing on the stream, 

Spears ranged in close array, 
And shields ilung back a glorious beam 

To the morn of a fearful day ! 

And the mountain echoes of the land 
Swcll'd through the deep blue sky. 

While to soft strains moved forth a band 
Of men that moved to die. 

They march'd not with the trumpet's blast, 

Nor bade the horn peal out, 
And the laurel-groves, as on they pass'd, 

Rung with no battle-shout ! 

They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire 
Their souls with an impulse high , 

But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre, 
For the sons of liberty 1 

And still sweet flutes, their path around, 

Sent forth jEolian breath : 
Tiiey needed not a sterner sound 

To marshal them for death ! 

So moved they calmly to their field, 

Thence never to return. 
Save bringing back the Spartan shield, 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS 



"We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few 
words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few 
short moments; — and then days, months, years intervene — and 
we see and know nothing of each other." 

Washington Irving 



Two barks met on the deep mid-sea. 
When calms had still'd the tide ; 

A few bright days of summer glee 
There found them side by side. 

And voices of the fair and brave 
Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 

And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
The melodies of earth. 

Moonlight on that lone Indian main 

Cloudless and lovely slept ; — 
While dancing step, and festive strain 

Each deck in triumph swept. 

And hands were link'd, and answering eyes 

With kindly meaning shone ; 
— Oh ! brief and passing sympathies, 

Like leaves together blown ! 

A little while such joy was cast 

Over the deep's repose, 
Till the loud singing winds at last 

Like trumpet music rose. 

And proudly, freely on their way 

The parting vessels bore ; 
— In calm or storm, by rock or bay. 

To meet — Oli ! never more ! 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



40J 



Never to bleiu] in victory's cheer, 
To aid ill hours of woo : — 

And thus bright spirits mingle here. 
Such ties are fcrm'd below ! 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 

A LEGEND OF WALES. 



It 18 an old tradition of the Welsh Baids, tliat on the sum- 
mit of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling 
a couch ; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, 
would be found in the morning either dead, in a state of 
frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration. This 
song is one of a " Selection of Welsh Melodies, arranged by 
John Pariy, and pubhslied by Mr. Power." 



I LAY on that rock where the storms have their 
dwelling, 
The birth-place of phantoms, the home of the 
cloud ; 
Around it for ever deep music is swelling. 

The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and 
loud, 
T was a midnight of shadows all fitfiilly stream- 
ing, 
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their 
moan ; 
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly 
gleaming, 
And I met tlie dread gloom of its grandeur 
alone. 



I lay there in silence — a Spirit came o'er me : 
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what 
I saw ; 
Things glorious, imearthly, pass'd floating before 
me. 
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and 
awe! 
I view'd the dread beings, around us that hover. 
Though veU'd by the mists of mortality's 
breath ; 
And I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover. 
For a strife was within me of madness and 
death. 

I saw them — the powers of the wind and the 

ocean, 
The rush of vfhoso pinion bears onward the 

storms ; 
Like the sweep of the whitb '•oiling wave was 

their motion, 
I felt their dim presence, — but knew not their 

forms ! 
I saw them — the mighty of ages departed — 
The dead were around me that night on the 

hill ; 
I'Vom their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance 

they darted, 
—There was light on my soul, but my heart's 

blood was chill. 

2C .^7 



I saw what man looks on, and dies — but my spiiiJ- 
Was strong, and triumphantly lived thro' tlia. 
hour : 
And as Irom the grave, I awoke to inherit 

A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power ! 
Day burst on that rock with the purple clo'id 
crested. 
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun ; 
— But oh ! what new glory all nature invested. 
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty 
was won ! 



A FAREWELL TO WALES. 

For the Melody called the "Ash-Grove." 
ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN. 



The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear — 
— Farewell ! and a blessing be with thee, green 
land ! 
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure moun 
tain-air. 
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's 
free hand ! 
From the love of my soul with my tears it 

is shed. 
As I leave thee, green land of my home and 
my dead ! 

I bless thee ! — yet not for the beauty which dwells 

In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy 

shore ; 

And not for the memory set deep in thy dells. 

Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore ; 

And not for thy songs of those proud ages 

fled, 
Green land, Poet-land of my home and my 
dead ! 

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat. 

Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies. 

For thy cottage hearths, burning the stranger to 

greet. 

For the soul that shines forth from thy children's 

kind eyes ! 

May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee 

be spread. 
Green land of my childhood, my home, and 
my dead! 



COME AWAY* 



Come away ! — the child, where flowers are 
springing 
Round its footsteps on the mountain slope, 
Hears a glad voice from the upland sing'jig, 
Like the sky-lark's with its tone of hope • 
Come away! 



*Tbis song IS in the oossession of Mr. Power to bo boJ I 
music. 



Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, 
All the wealth of glowing life outspread, 

Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him. 
By that strain the youtli in joy is led: 
Come away! 

Blowly, sadly, heavy change is falling 
O'er the sweetness of the voice within ; 

Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling. 
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win : 
Come away! 

Come away ! — the heart, at last forsaken. 

Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue. 

Yet a breath can still those words awaken. 
Though to other shores far hence they woo : 
Come away ! 

In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighina. 
In the low sweet sounds of early spring, 

Still their music wanders — till the dying 
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing : 
Come away ! 



MUSIC FROM SHORE. 



A. SOUND comes on the rising breeze, 

A sweet and lovely sound ! 
Piercing the tumiilt of the seas 

That wildly dash around. 

From land, from sunny land it comes, 
From hills with murmuring trees. 

From paths by still and happy homes. 
That sweet sound on the breeze. 

Why should its faint and passing sigh 
Thus bid my quick pulse leap ? 

No part in earth's glad melody 
Is mine upon the deep. 

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot. 
Whence those rich breathings flow ! 

Kind hearts, although they know me not, 
Like mine there beat and glow. 

And blessing, fiom the bark that roams 

O'er solitary seas. 
To those that far in happy homes 

Give sweet sounds to the breeze ! 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. 



■'Fair Helen of Kirconnel," as she is caiisd in the Scottish 
Mmscrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and 
B rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, 
una died in the arms of the former. 



Hold me upon thy faithful heart, 
Keep back my flitting breath ; 
r is early, early to depart, 
Beioved !-~vet this is death I 



Look on me still : — let that kind eye 

Be the last light I see ! 
Oh ! sad it is in spring to die. 

But yet I die for thee ! 

For thee, my own ! thy stately head 

Was never thus to bow ! — 
Give tears when with me love hath fled. 

True love, thou know'st it now ! 

Oh ! the free streams look'd bright, wliere'ei 

We in our gladness roved ; 
And the blue skies were very fair — 

O friend ! because we loved. 

Farewell ! — I bless thee — live thou on, 
When this young heart is low ! 

Surely my blood thy life hath won — 
Clasp me once more — I go ! 



tLOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS E'/^H- 



Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
Truth in their dark transparence lies ; 
Their sweetness gives me back the tears, 
And the free trust of early years ; 

My gentle child ! 

The spirit of my infant prayer 
Shines in the deptlis of quiet there ; 
And home and love once more are mine, 
Found in that dewy calm divine. 

My gentle child ! 

Oh ! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, 
Its light by day around thee gleams ; 
Thy smile hath gift;s from vernal skies ; 
— Look -on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
My gentle child ! 



I GO, SWEET FRIENDS. 



I GO, sweet friends ! yet think of me 

When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers; 

For we have vv'ander'd far and free. 

In those bright hours, the violet's hours. 

I go — but when you pause to hear. 
From distant hills, the Sabbath bell 

On summer winds float silvery clear. 
Think on me then — I loved it well ! 

Forget me not around your hearth. 
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze 

For dear hath been its evening mirth 
To me, sweet friends ! in other days. 

And oh ! when music's voice is heard 

To melt in strains of parting woe, 
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd-- 

— Think of me then ! I go, I go ! 



+ The songs marked thus T are in the possession of Mi 
Willis, to be published by him with music. 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



411 



JJ< THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER. 



01) cast tliou not 
Affection finm tliec ! in tliis bitlor world 
Hold to lliy lioiirt that only treasure fast. 
VViitcli — guard it — suffer not a breath to dim 
Tlie briglit gem's puri'v ! 



[f tilou hast crusli'd a flower, 

The root may not be blig-litcd ; 
If thou hast quencli'd a lamp, 

Once more it may be lighted ; 
But on thy harp or on thy lute. 

The string' wliich thou hast broken, 
Shall never in sweet sound again 

Give to tliy touch a token ! 

If thou hast loosed a bird, 

Whose voice of song could cheer thee, 
Still, still ho may be won 

From tlie skies to warble near thee : 
But if upon a troubled sea 

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 
Hope not tliat wind or wave will bring 

The treasure back when needed. 

If thou hast bruised a vine, 

The summer's breath is healing. 
And its clusters yet may glow, 

Tiirough the leaves their bloom revealing : 
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 

With a bright draught fiU'd — oh ! never 
Sliall earth give back that lavish'd wealth, 

To cool tliy parch'd lip's fever ! 

The heart is like that cup. 

If thou waste the love it bore thee ; 
And like that jewel gone, 

Which the deep will not restore thee ; 
And like that strain of harp or lute 

Wiience the sweet sound is scattcr'd : — 
Gently, oh ! gently touch the chords, 

So soon for ever shatter'd ! 



t BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED. 



Brightly, brightly hast thou fled ; 
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head. 

Brightly didst thou part ! 
With thy young thoughts pure from spot, 
With thy Ibnd love wasted not, 

With thy bounding heart. 

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet. 
Calmly smiles tliy pale cheek yet, 

Ere witli dust o'erspread: 
Lilies ne'er by tempest blown. 
White-rose which no stain liath known, 

Be about thee shed ! 

So we give thee to the earth, 
And the primrose shall have birth 

O'er tliy gentle head ; 
Thou tliat like a dew-drop, borne 
On a sudden breeze of morn, 

Briglitly thus liast fled ! 



tSING TO ME, GONDOLIER! 



Sing to me. Gondolier ! 

Sing words from Tasso's lay ; 
Wliile blue, and still, and clear, 

Night seems but softer day : 
The gale is gently falling, 

As if it paused to hear 
Soine strain the past recalling ; 

Sing to me, Gondolier ! 

Oh, ask me not to wake 

The memory of the brave : 
Bid no high numbers break 

The silence of the wave. 
Gone are the noble-hearted. 

Closed the bright pageants here ; 
And the glad song is departed 

From the mournful Gondolier ! 



O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS." 



O'er the far blue mountains, 
O'er the white sea foam. 

Come, thou long parted one ! 
Back to thine home ! 

When the bright fire shinetli, 
Sad looks thy place, 

While the true heart pineth, 
Missing thy face. 

Music is sorrowful. 
Since thou art gone. 

Sisters are mourning thee, 
Come to thine own ! 

Hark ! the home voices call 

Back to thy rest ; 
Come to thy father's hall, 

Thy mother's breast ! 

O'er the far blue mountains, 
O'er the white sea foam. 

Come, tliou long parted one ! 
Back to thine home! 



O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING.^ 



O THOU breeze of spring ! 

Gladdening sea and shore, 
Wake the woods to sing, 

Wake my heart no more ! 
Streams have felt the sighing 

Of thy scented wing. 
Let eacii fomit replying 

Hail thee, breeze of spring. 
Once more ! 



* Set to music by the Autbor's sister. 
tSet to music by Jofm JLodge> Esq 



412 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



O'er long buried flowers 

Passing, not in vain, 
Odours in soft showers 

Thou hast brought again. 
— Let the primrose greet thee, 

Let tlie violet pour 
Incense forth to meet thee — 

Wake my heart no more ! 
No more ! 

From a funeral urn 

Bower'd in leafy gloom, 
Ev'n thy soft return 

Calls not song or bloom. 
Leave my spirit sleeping 

Like that silent thing; 
Stir the founts of weeping 

There, O breeze of spring, 
No more ! 



COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 



Come to me, dreams of heaven ! 

My fainting spirit bear 
On your bright wings, by morning given, 

Up to celestial air. 
Away, far, far away, 

From bowers by tempests riven, 
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, 

O blessed dreams of heaven ! 

Come but for one brief hour. 

Sweet dreams ! and yet again, 
O'er burning thought and memory shower 

Your soft effacing rain ! 
Waft me where gales divine, 

With dark clouds ne'er have striven. 
Where living founts for ever shine — 

O blessed dreams of heaven !* 



GOOD NIGHT.t 



Day is past . 
Stars have set their watch at last, 
Foudls that through the deep woods flow, 
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now. 
Flowers have shut with fading light — 
Good night ! 

Go to rest ! 
rileep sit dove-like on thy breast ! 
If v/ithin th»*. secret cell 
One dark form of memory dwell, 
Be it mantled from thy sight — 
Good night ! 



*Set to music by Miss Graves. 
tFor a melody of Eisenhofei's. 



Joy be thine ! 
Kind looks o'er thy slumbers shine ! 
Go, and in the spirit-land 
Meet thy home's long parted band, 
Be their eyes all love and light- — 
Good night ! 

Peace to all ! 
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall . 
Exile ! o'er thy couch may gleams 
Pass from thine own mountain streams: 
Bard ! away to worlds more bright — 
Good night ! 



LET HER DEPART. 



Her home is far, oh ! far away ! 

The clear light in her eyes 
Hath naught to do with earthly day, 

'T is kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart ! 

She looks upon the things of earth, 

Ev'n as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, 

How softly, yet how fer ! 

Let her depart ! 

Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love — 
Oh ! could they mount and fly ! 

She never sees a wandering dove, 
But for its wings to sigh. 

Let her depart! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way. 
But deems it sent from heavenly air, 

For her who cannot stay. 

Let her depart! 
Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, 

She breathes and moves alone. 
Pining for those bright bowers and streams 

Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart! 



X I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAl^ 

I WOULD we had not met again ! 

— I had a dream of thee. 
Lovely, though sad, on desert plain. 

Mournful on midnight sea. 

What though it haunted me by night, 

And troubled through the day ? 
It touch'd all earth with spirit-light. 

It glorified my way ! 

Oh ! what shall now my fate restore 

In holy things and fair ? 
We met — I saw thy soul once more — 

— The world's breath had been there , 



NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 



413 



Yes ! it was sad on dcscrl-jjlain, 
Mournful on midniglit sea, 

Yet would I buy with lilc again 
That one deep dream of thee 1 



WATER-LILIES 

A FAIRY-SONG. 



Come away, Elves ! while the dew is sweet, 

Come to the dingles where fairies meet ; 

Know that the lilies liave spread their bells 

O'er all the pools in our forest-dells ; 

Stilly and lig-htly their vases rest 

On the quivering sleep of the water's breast, 

Catehing the sunshine through leaves that throw 

To their scented bosoms an emerald glow ; 

And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, 

A golden star unto heaven looks up, 

As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie. 

Set in the blue of the summer sky. 

— Come away ! under arching boughs we '11 float, 

Making those urns each a fairy boat ; 

We '11 row them with reeds o'er the fountains free. 

And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be, 

And we '11 send out wild music so sweet and low. 

It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow, 

As if 't were a breeze with a flute's low sigh. 

Or water-drops train'd into melody. 

— Come away ! for the midsummer sun grows 

strong. 
And the life of the lily may not be long. 



VViiile the softest shadows 
On the greensward lie, 

While the moonlight slumbers 
In the lily's urn. 

Bright elves of the wild-wood ! 
Oh ! return, return ! 

Round tiie forest fountain. 

On the river shore. 
Let your silvery laughter 

Echo yet once more. 
While the joyous bounding 

Of your dewy feet. 
Rings to that old chorus : 

" The daisy is so sweet !"* 

Oberon, Titania, 

Did your starlight mirth. 
With the song of Avon, 

Quit this work-day earth ? 
Yet while green leaves glisten. 

And while bright stars burn, 
By that magic memory. 

Oh, return, return ! 



}BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST 



THE BROKEN FLOWER. 



Oh ! wear it on thy heart, my love ! 

Still, still a little while ! 
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves. 

Though faded be their smile. 
Yet, for the sake of what hath been 

Oh ! cast it not away ! 
'T was born to grace a summer scene, 

A long, bright, golden day, 
My love ! 

A long, bright, golden day. 

A little while around thee, love ! 

Its fragrance yet shall cling, 
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain 

A fair, though faded thing. 
But not ev'en that warm heart hath power 

To win it back from fate : 
— Oh ! / am like thy broken flower, 

Cherish'd too late, too late, 
My love ! 

Cherish'd, alas ! too late ! 



FAIRIES' RECALL. 



While the blue is richest 
In tlie starry sky, 
37* 



hy a mountain stream at rest. 
We found the warrior lying. 
And around his noble breast 
A banner, clasp'd in dying : 
Dark and still 
Was every hill, 
And the winds of night were sighing. 

Last of his noble race. 

To a lonely bed we bore him ; 
'T was a green, still, solemn place, 

Where the mountain heath waves o'er him^ 
Woods alone 
Seem to moan, 
Wild streams to deplore him. 

Yet, from festive hall and lay 

Our sad thoughts oft are flying, 
To those dark hills far away. 

Where in death we found him lying. 
On his breast 
A banner press'd. 
And the night-wind o'er him sighin',''. 



THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA 



Oh ! tell mc not the woods are fair. 

Now Spring is on her way , 
Well, well I know how brightly tliern 

In joy the young leaves play ; 



*Sno the chorus of Fairies, in the 
Chaucer. 



Flowit and L al ' ol 



How sweet on winds of morn or eve 
The violet's breath may be ; — 

— Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 
My lone rock by the sea. 

The wild wave's thunder on the shore, 

The curlew's restless cries, 
Unto my watching- heart are more 

Than all earth's melodies. 
—Come back, my ocean rover ! come ! 

There 's but one place for me, 
Till I can greet thy swift sail home — 

— My lone rock by the sea ! 



O YE VOICES GONE.* 



Oh ! ye voices gone, 

Sounds of other years ! 
Hush that haunting- tone, 

Melt me not to tears ! 
All around forget, 

All who loved you well, 
Yet, sweet voices, yet 

O'er my soul ye swell. 

With the winds of spring, 

With the breath of flowers. 
Floating back, ye bring 

Thoughts of vanish'd hours. 
Hence your music take, 

Oh ! ye voices gone ! 
This lone heart ye make 

But more deeply lone. 



i IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING. 



Is there some spirit sighing 

With sorrow in the air. 
Can weary hearts be dying-, . 

Vain love repining there ? 
If not, then how can that wild wail, 

O sad JEoVmn lyre ! 
Be drawn fortli by the wandering gale, 

From thy deep tlirilling wire? 

No, no I — thou dost not borrow 

That sadness from the wind, 
Nor are those tones of sorrow 

In thee, O harp ! enshrined; 
But in our own hearts deeply set 

Lies the true quivering lyre. 
Whence love, and memory, and regret,' 

Wake answers from thy wire. 



THE NAME OF ENGLAND. 



The trumpet of the battle 

Hath a high and thrilling tone ; 

And the first deep gun of an ocean fight 
Dread music all its own. 

* Bet. lo music bv Miss H. Corbelt 



But a mightier power, my England, 

Is in that name of thine. 
To strike the fire from every heart 

Along the banner'd line. 

Proudly it v/oke the spirits 

Of yore, the brave and true. 
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, 

And the yeoman's arrow flew. 

And proudly hath it floated 

Through the battles of the sea, 
When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreath? 
play'd 

Like the lightning in its glee. 

On rock, on wave, on bastion. 

Its echoes have been known, 
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low, 

That have answer'd to its tone. 

A thousand ancient mountains 

Its pealing note hath stirr'd ; 
— Sound on, and on, for evermore, 

O thou victorious word ! 



OLD NORWAY.* 

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG. 



"To a Norwegian the words Gamle JVorse (Old Norway- 
have a speli in them immediate and powerful : they cannot bo 
resisted. Oavile JVorge is heard, in an instant, repeated b" 
every voice; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained ; not a 
drop is left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus 
"ForJVorgc!" the national song of Norway. Here, («'■ 
Christiansand) and in a hundred other instances in Norway, ] 
have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the 
chance introduction of the expression Garnlc JYorge. The 
gravest discussion is instantly interrupted; and one might sup 
pose for the moment, that the party was a party of patriots, 
assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of 
freedom." — JJerwent Conway's Personal J^arrative of a 
Journey through J^orway and Sweden. 

The following words were written to the national air, as 
contained in the work above cited. 



Arise ! old Norway sends the word 

Of battle on the blast; 
Her voice the forest pines have stirr'd, 

As if a storm went past; 
Her thousand hills the call have heard, 

And forth their fire flags cast. 

Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase. 

The kingly chase of foes; 
'Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race^ 

Whose trampling shakes the snows; 
Arm, arm ! 't is on a nobler trace 

The northern spearman goes. 

Our hills have dark and strong defiles. 

With many an icy bed; 
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles, 

Above the invader's head! 
Or let the seas, that guard our Isles, 

Give burial to his dead ! 



* These words have been published, as arranged to the spi 
1 ited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



415 



COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP. 



Come to me, gentle slccj) ! 

I pine, I pine ibr tlico ; 
Come with tliy spells, the soft, the deep. 

And set my spirit I'rce ! 
Each loneiy, burnnig thought. 

In twilight languor steep — 
Come to tiie full heart, long o'erwrought, 

O gentle, gentle sleep ! 

Come with thme urn of dew. 

Sleep, gentle sleep ! yet bring 
No voiee, love's yearning to renew, 

No vision on thy wing ! 
Come, as to folding flowers. 

To birds in forests deep ; 
— Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, 

O gentle, gentle sleep! 



Ei>tl.^LISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY 

TO THE AIR OF " AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN !" 



SiXG, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poiir'd ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted. 

Our brethren of the sword ! 



Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices 

Have mingled with our own; 
Fill high the cup, but when the soul rejoices, 

Forget not who are gone ! 

They that stood with us, 'midst the dead anil 
dying. 

On Albuera's plain ; 
They that beside us cheerly track'd the flying, 

Far o'er the hills of Spain* 

They that amidst us, when the shells were show 
ering. 
From old Rodrigo's wall. 
The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle 
towering, 
First, first at victory's call ! 

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving, 

In Roneesvalles' dell ; 
— With England's blood the southern vineyards 
laving. 

Forget not how they fell I 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be pour'd ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword ! 



ts^tellaif ecsm^ Baeiii^, 



THE HOME OF LOVE. 



Tnou movest in visions, Love ! — Around thy way. 
E'en through this world's rough path and change- 
fill day. 

For ever floats a gleam, 
Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn. 
But thine own soul's illumined chambers born — 
The colouring of a dream ! 

Love, shall I read thy dream ? — oh ! is it not 
All of some sheltering, wood-embosom'd spot — 

A bower for thee and thine ? 
Yes! lone and lowly in, that home; yet there 
Something of heaven in the transparent air 

Makes every flower divine. 

Something that mellows and that glorifies. 
Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, 

As o'er some blessed isle ; 
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow, 
Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow 

Sleeps lovingly awhile. 

The very whispers of the wind have there 
A flute-like harmonj' that seems to bear 

Greeting from some bright shore, 



Where none have said Farewell! — Where no 

decay 
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day ; 

Where the storm's might is o'er. 

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest. 
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast 

Hidden from earthly ill : 
There wouldst thou wateh the homeward step, 

whose sound 
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round. 

Thine inmost soul can thrill. 

There by the hearth should many a glorious page. 
From mind to mind th' immortal heritage, 

For thee its treasures pour ; 
Or music's voiee at vesper hours be heard. 
Or dearer interchange of playful word. 

Affection's household loic. 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer. 
The melody of hearts in heavenly air. 

Thence duly should arise , 
Li-fting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath, 
Of spirits, not to be disjoin'd by death, 

Up to the Starr V sk.cs 



416 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



There, dost thou well believe, no storm should Their thoughts, that strove with time, and 



'J'o mar the stillness of that angel home ; — 
There should thy slumbers be 
Weigh'd down with honey-dew, serenely bless'd. 
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest 
Under some balmy tree. 

Love, Love ! thou passionate in joy and woe ! 
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below— 
Here, where bright things must die? 
Oh, thou! that, wildly worshipping, dost shed 
On the frail altar of a mortal head 
Gifts of infinity ! 

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love ! 
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above. 

Still round thy precious things ; 
Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, 
In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose. 

Here, where the blight hath wings. 

And, as a flower with some fine sense imbued 
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude, 

So in thy prescient breast 
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill 
To the low footstep of each coming ill ; 

— Oh ! canst Thou dream of rest? 

Bear up thy dream ! thou mighty and thou v/eak ! 
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break, 

As a flame, tempest-sway'd ! 
He that sits calm on high is yet the source 
Whence thy soul's current hath its troubled course. 

He that great deep hath made ! 

Will He not pity ? — He whose searching eye 
Reads all the secrets of thine agony ? — 

Oh ! pray to he forgiven 
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, 
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness — 

Love ! thy sole home is heaven ! 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. 



La vue d une fleur caresse mon imagination, et flatte mes 
Bens s un point inexprimable. Sous le tianquille abri du toit 
paternel, j'etais nouirie des I'enfance avec des fleurs et dos 
livres: — dans I'etroite enceinte d'une prison, au milieu des ii 
imposies par la tyrannie, j'oublie I'injustice des hommes, leurs 
Bottises [jt mes maux avec des livres et des fleurs. — J\Iadaiiie 
Poland. 



CoMJi:, let me make a sunny realm around thee. 
Of thought and beauty ! Here are books and 
flowers, 
With spells to loose the fetter which had bound 
thee. 
The ravell'd coil of this world's feverish hours. 

The soul of song is in these deathless pages. 
Even as the odour in the flower enshrined : 

Here tlie crown'd spirits of departed ages 
Have 'e^ the silent melodies of mind. 



change, and anguish, 

Foi some high place where faith her wing 
might rest, 
Are burning here ; a flame that may not lan- 
guish, 

Still pointing upward to that bright hill's crest ! 

Their grief, the veil'd infinity exploring 

For treasures lost, is here I — their boundless 
love 
Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring 
On all things roimd, and clasping all above. 

And the bright beings, their own heart's crea- 
tions. 

Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still 
Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations 

Are here, and victories of prevailing will I 

Listen, oh ! listen, let their high words cheer thee, 
Their swan-like music ringing through all 
woes. 

Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee, 
The Elysian air of their divine repose I 

Or wouldst thou turn to earth ? Not earth all 
furrow'd 

By the old traces of man's toil and care. 
But the green peaceful world that never sorrow'd, 

The world of leaves, and dcAvs, and summer air ! 

Look on these flowers ! As o'er an altar shedding. 
O'er Milton's page, soft light from colour'd 
urns. 
They are the links, man's heart to nature wed- 
ding, 
When to her breast the prodigal returns. 

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles. 
Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden 
stream. 
Where the sweet star of eve looks down and 
mingles 
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. 

They are from where the soft winds play in 
gladness. 
Covering the turf with flowery blossom showers 
— Too richly dower'd, O friend ! are we lor sad 
ness. 
Look on an empire — mind and nature — oiu*s I 



THE FAITH OF LOVE. 



Thou hast watch'd beside the bed of death, 

Oh fearless human love ! 
Thy lip received the last faint breath, 

Ere tlie spirit fled above. 

Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier, 

In a low and farewell tone, 
Thou hast given the grave both flowoj and tear- 

— Oh love ! thy task is done. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



41 J 



Then turn thee from each pleasant spot 

Where tliou wort wont to rove, 
For tlicrc the liioiKl of thy soul is not, 

Nor the joy of tliy youth, oh love ! 

Tlion wilt meet but mournful memory there. 
Her dreams in the groves she weaves 

With eeliocs fiihng tlie summer air, 
With siglis tlie trcmbUng leaves. 

Tlicn turn thee to the world ag-ain. 
From those dim haunted bowers, 

And shut tiiine ear to the wild sweet strain, 
That tells of vanish'd hours. 

And wear not on thine aching heart 

The image of the dead. 
For the tie is rent that gave thee part 

In the gladness its beauty shed. 

And gaze on the pictured smile no more 

That thus can life outlast, 
All between parted souls is o'er; 

— Love ! love ! forget the past ! 

"Voice of vain boding I away, be still! 

Strive not against the faith 
That yet my bosom with light can fill, 

Unquench'd, and midimm'd by death: 

"From the pictured smile I will not turn. 

Though sadly now it shine ; 
Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn, 

For the step once link'd with mine : 

" Nor shut mine ear to the song of old, 
Though its notes the pang renew, 

— Such memories deep in my heart I hold. 
To keep it pure and true. 

' By the holy instinct of my heart, 

By the hope that bears me on, 
I have still my own undying part 

In the deep affection gone. 

" By the presence that about me seems 
Through night and day to dwell, 

Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams ! 
— I have breathed no last farewell 1" 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA ATTENDED 
BY ANGELS. 



How rich tlmt forehead's calm expanse ! 
How bright that heaven-tiirecled glance ! 
- Waft her to glory, winged powers, 
Ere sorrow be renew'd. 
And intBr<;oiirse with mortal houra 
Bring back an humliler mood ! 

JVordsworth. 



How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, 
Wear yet so deep a calm ? — Oh ! child of song! 

is not the music-land a world of dreaming, 
Where forms of sad bewildering beauty throng ? 



Hath it not sounds from voices long departed ? 

Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's car . 
Low haunting whispers, which the wcary-hcartcd, 

Stealing 'midst crowds away, have wept to 
hear 1 

No, not to thee ! — thy spirit, meek, yet queenly 
On its own starry height, beyond all tiiis. 

Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, 

Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of 
bliss ! 

Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swell- 
ing) 
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from 
the skies ? 
Bright guests ! even such as left of yore their 
dwelling. 
For the deep cedar shades of Paradise ! 

What strain ? — oh ! not the Nightingale's, when 
showering 
Her own heart's life-drops on the burning lay, 
She stirs the young woods in the days of flower- 
ing, 
And pours her strength, but not her grief away 

And not the Exile's — when 'midst lonely billows 
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother simg. 

Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows. 
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is 
hung. 

And not the Pilgrim's — though his thoughts be 
holy. 
And sweet his Ave song, when day grows dim. 
Yet as he journeys, pensively and slowly. 

Something of sadness floats through that low 
hymn. 

But thou ! — the spirit which at eve is filling 
All the hush'd air and reverential sky. 

Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture 
thrilling, 
This is the soul of thy rich harmony. 

This bears up high those breathings of devotion 
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free ; 

Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion 
Is the dream-hamited music-land for thee. 



THE VOICE OF THE WAVES. 

WKITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRHl-'E 



How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep, 

No mood, which season lakes away or brings- 
1 could have fancied ihat the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 
* * * ****** 
But welcome fortitude and patient cheer. 
And frequent sighs of what is to be borne. 

WordsvortH 



Answer, ye chiming waves I 
That now in sunshine sweep, 

Speak to me from thy hidden caves. 
Voice of the solemn deeo ' 



418 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Hath man's lone spirit here 

Witli storms in battle striven ? 
Where all is now so calmly clear, 

Hath anguish cried to heaven ? 

— Then the sea's voice arose, 

Like an earthquake's under-tone, 

" Mortal, the strife of human woes 
Wiere hath not nature known ! 

" Here to tlie quivering mast 

Despair hath wildly clung, 
Tlie shriek upon the wind hath pass'd, 

The midnight sky hath rung. 

" And the youthful and the brave, 

With their beauty and renown. 
To the hollow chambers of the wave 

In darkness have gone down. 

" They are vanish'd from their place — 
Let their homes and hearths make moan ! 

But the rolling waters keep no ti'ace 
Of pang or conflict gone." 

— Alas ! thou haughty deep ! 

The strong, the sounding far ! 
My heart before thee dies, — I weep 

To think on what we are ! 

To think that so we pass, 

High hope, and thought, and mind, 
Ev'n as tlie breath-stain from the glass, 

Leaving no sign behind ! 

Saw'st thou naught else, thoii main ? 

Thou and the midnight sky ? 
Naught save the struggle, brief and vain, 

The parting agony ? 

— And the sea's voioe replied, 

" Here nobler things have been ! 
Power with the valiant when they died, 

To sanctify the scene : 

" Courage, in fragile form. 

Faith, trusting to the last. 
Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro' the storm, 

But all alike have pass'd." 

Sound on, thou haughty sea ! 

These have not pass'd m vain ; 
My soul awakes, my hope springs free 

On victor wings again. 

Thou, from thine empire driven, 

May'st vanish with thy powers ; 
But by the hearts that here have striven, 

A loftier doom is ours ! 



THE VICTOR. 



Thou art the victor. Love ! 
Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, the free, 
The strength of the battle is given to thee, 

The spirit from above ! 

Thou hast look'd on Death, and smiled ! 
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form. 
Through the waves of the fight, through the rush 
of the storm. 

On field, and flood, and wild ! 

No ! — Thou art the victor, Death ! 
Thou comest — and where is that whicli spoke, 
From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke ? 

— Gone with the fleeting breath ! 

Thou comest — and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves — ^yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and reft ? 

Silence is where thou art ! 
Silently there must kindred meet, 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No bounding of heart to heart ? 

Boast not thy victory. Death ! 
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's powe. 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber, the snow beneath. 

It is but as a Tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still 
But the fiery thought, and the lofty will, 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And thus with the root whence affection springs 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things — 

Thou art the victor. Love ! 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD, 



'De tout ce qui t'aimoit n'est-il plus rien qui t'aime'?" 

Lamartine. 



Mighty ones, Love and Death ! 
^e are strong in this world of ours, 
V"6 meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the 

flowers, 

WhicJi hath tlie conqueror's wreath? 



This piece was suggested by a picture in the poeseesinn of 
Mrs. Lawrence, of Wavertree Hall. — Itvepresenls the " Hero's 
Child" of Campbell's Poem, seated beside a solitary tomb of 
rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and desert place. A 
tempest seems gathering in the angry skies above her, but the 
attitude of the drooping figure expresses the utter carelessness 
of desolation, and the countenance speaksof entire abstraction 
from all external objects. — A bow and quiver lie beside her, 
amongst the weeds and wild flowers of the desert. 



I fled the home of grief 
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall, 
I found the helmet of my Chief, 

His bow still hanging on our wall; 
And took it down, and vow'd to rove 

This desert place, a huntress bold. 
Nor would I change my buried love 
For any heart of living mould. 

Campbell. 



The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud : — 

Bid the lorn huntress of tlie desert rise. 

And gird the form whose beauty grief hatJ 
bow'd, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4J9 



A.ncl kavo thb tomb, as tombs are left — alone, 
To the star's vigil, and tlic wind's wild moan. 

Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, 

Wliere gems are glittering, and bright wine is 
pour'd ; 
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, 
And soul seems gushing from the harp's fioll 
chord ; 
And riclicr liowers amid fair tresses wave, 
riuin the sad " Love lies bleeding" of the grave. 

Oil ! little Itnow'st thou of the o'ermastering spell, 
WherewitJi love binds the spirit strong in pain. 

To the spot hallow'd by a wild farewell, 
A parting agony, — intense yet vain ; 

A look — and darkness when its gleam hath flown 

A voice — and silence wlien its words are gone! 

She hears thee not ; her full, deep, fervent heart 
Is set in her dark eyes ; — and they are bound 

Tnto that cross, that shrine, that world apart, 
Wlicre faithful love hath sanctified the ground : 

And love with death striven long by tear and 
prayer, 

And anguish fi^ozen into still despair. 

Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last 

A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born ; 

Around her path a vision's glow is cast. 

Back, back, her lost one comes, in hues of 
morn !* 

For her the gulf is fill'd — the dark night fled ; 

Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 

And slie can pour fortli in such converse high. 
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong. 

Oh 1 lonelier far, perchance thy destiny. 

And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay 
throng, 

Dian her's — the queen of that majestic gloom, 

The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb ! 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 



I seem like onu 
Wlin treads alone 

Some banriuet-liall deserted. 
Whoso lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead, 

And all but me departed. 



Moore. 



Seest thou yon gray gleaming hall, 
Where the deep elm-shadows fall ? 
V^oiccs tliat have left the earth 

Long ago. 
Still arc mm-muring round its hearth, 

Soft and low; 

Ever there ; yet one alone 

tl.ith the gift to hear liieir tone. 

' A son of light, a lovely form 
He comos, and makes her t'lad." 



Guests come tliither, and depart, 
Free of step, and light of heart ; 
Children witli sweet visions blcss'd, 
111 the haunted chambers rest ; 
One alone unslumbering lies 
When the niglit hatii seal'd all eyes, 
One quick heart and watchful ear, 
Listening ibr those whispers clear. 

Sccst thou where the woodbine flowers 
O'er yon low porch hang in showers ? 
Startling faces of the dead, 

Pale, yet sweet. 
One lone woman's entering tread 

There still meet ! 
Some with young smooth foreheads fair 
Faintly shining through bright hair ; 
Some witli reverend locks of snow — 
All, all buried long ago ! 

All, from under deep sea-waves, 

Or the flowers of foreign graves, 

Or tlie old and banner'd aisle. 

Where their high tombs gleam the while 

Rising, wandering, floating by 

Suddenly and silently, 

Tiirough their earthly home and place, 

But amidst another race. 

Wherefore, unto one alone. 

Are those sounds and visions knovpn? 

Wherefore hath that spell of power. 

Dark and dread. 
On her soul, a baleful dower, 

Thus been shed ? 
Oh ! in those deep-seeing eyes. 
No strange gift of mystery lies ! 
She is lone where once she moved, 
Fair, and happy, and beloved ! 

Sunny smiles were glancing round her, 
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her ; 
Now those silver chords are broken. 
Those bright looks have left no token ; 
Not one trace on all the earth. 
Save her memory of their mirth. 

She is lone and Jingering now. 
Dreams have gathered o'er her brow, 
'Midst gay songs and children's play, 
She is dwelling far away ; 
Seeing what none else may see — 
Haunted still her place must be ! 



BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE. 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OK EASTLAKE's. 

Dakk chieftain of the heath and heighi 
Wild fcaster on the hills by night ! 
Scest thou tlie stormy sunset's glow 
Flung back by glancing spears below 7 
Now for one strife of stern despair ! 
Tlie foe hatJi track'd thee to tliv lair 



fhou, against whom the voice of blood 
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood ; 
4nd in whose dreams a moan should be, 
Not of the water, nor of the tree ; 
Haply, thine own last hour is nigh,— 
Yet shalt thou not forsaken die. 

There 's one that pale beside thee stands. 
More true than all thy mountain bands ! 
She will not shrink in doubt and dread, 
When the balls whistle round thy head ; 
Nor leave thee, though tliy closing eye 
No longer may to her's reply. 

Oh ! many a soft and quiet grace 
Hath faded from her form and face ; 
And many a thought, the fitting guest 
Of woman's meek religious breast. 
Hath perish'd in her wanderings wide. 
Through the deep forests, by thy side. 

Yet, mournfully surviving all, 

A flower upon a ruin's wall, 

A friendless thing whose lot is cast. 

Of lovely ones to be the last ; 

Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, 

Thine is her lone devotion still. 

And oh ! not wholly lost the heart 
Where that undying love hath part ; 
Not worthless all, tliough far and long 
From home estranged, and guided wrong ; 
Yet may its deptlis by heaven be stirr'd. 
Its prayer for thee be pour'd and heard ! 



CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



All good and guilUess as ihou art, 
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart — 
Griefs that along thy alter'd face 
Will breathe a more subduing grace, 
Than even those looks of joy that lie 
On the soft cheek of infancy. 

Wilson. 



Enough for thee are the dews that sleep. 
Like hidden gems, in the flower-urns deep; 
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 
'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell ; 
And the scent by the blossoming sweet-briers 

shed. 
And the beauty that bows the wood hyacinth's 

head. 

Oh ! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee ! 
What is remembrance or thought to thee? 
Fill thy bright locks with tliose gifts of spring. 
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling ; 
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon — 
What if to droop and to perish soon ? 
Nature hath mines of such wealth — and thou 
Never wilt prize its delights as now ! 

For a day is coming to quell the tone 

That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! 

And to dim thy brow with a touch of care. 

Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; 

And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes 

Into tJie stillness of autumn skies ; 

And to teacJi thee that grief hath her needful part, 

'Midst the hidden things of each human heart. 

Yet sliall we mourn, gentle child ! for this ? 
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss ! 
Such be tJiy portion ! — the bliss to look, 
With a reverent spirit, through nature's book; 
By fount, by forest, by river's line, 
To track the paths of a love divine ; 
To read its deep meanings — to see and hear 
God in earth's garden — and not to fear ! 



THE SISTER'S DREAM. 



Hast thou been in tlie woods with the honey-bee ? 
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? 
With the hare thro' the copses and dingles wild ? 
With the butterfly over the heath, fair cliild ? 
Yes ! the light fall of thy bounding feet 
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat ; 
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells. 
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. 

T liou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song 
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng; 
Tlie woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, 
TliP. lily that gleams by the fountain's brim; 
Diose are old words, that have made each grove 
A dreaming haunt for romance and love : 
E;ich sunny bank, where faint odours lie, 
%. uiace tor the gushings of poesy. 

Thou krtovf'sT not the liglit wherewith fairy lore 
Spriiikies the rurf and the daisies o'er; 



Suggested by a ricture, in which a young girl is represented 
as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by the spirits of 
her departed sisters. 



She sleeps ! — but not the free and sunny sleep 

That lightly on the brow of childhood lies ; 

Thougli happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, 

Yet, ere it sunk upon her shadow'd eyes. 
Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves 

o'erswept 
Her soul's meek stillness : — she liad pray'd and 
wept. 

And now in visions to her couch they come. 
The early lost — the beautiful — the dead — 

That unto her bequeath'd a mournful home. 
Whence with their voices all sweet laughter 
fled; 

They rise — the sisters of her youth arise. 

As from the world where no frail blossom dies. 

And well the sleeper knows them not of earth- 
Not as they were when binding up the flowers, 

Telling wild legends round the winter's hearth, 
Braiding their long fair hair for festal hours • 

These things are past; — a spiritual gleam, 

1 A solemn a-lory, robes them in that dream 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



421 



Yet. if the glee of life's fresh budding years 
In those j..ure aspects may no more be read, 

rhoncc, too, hatii borrow melted, — and the tears 
Wliirli o'er their mother's holy dust they shed, 

Are ail clfaecd; tlicre earth liath left no sign 

^ave its deep love, still toucliing every line. 

But oh I more soft, more tender, brcatliing more 
A tiiought of pity, than in vanish'd days : 

\Vliile hovering silently and brightly o'er 

The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze 

Witii their immortal eyes, that seem to say, 

" Yet, sister, yet we love thee, eome away 1" 

T will fade, the radiant dream ! and will she not 
Wake with more painful yearning at her 
heart ? 
Will not her home seem yet a lovelier spot. 
Her task more sad, when those bright shadows 
part ? 
And the green summer after them look dim. 
And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn ? 

But let her hope be strong, and let the dead 
Visit her soul in heaven's ealm beauty still. 

Be their names utter'd, be their memory spread 
Yet round the plaee they never more may fiU ! 

All is not over with earth's broken tie — 

Where, where should sisters love, if not on high ? 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB, 
Near Woodstock, in the County of Kilkenny. 

Yes I hide beneath the mouldering heap, 

The undelighting, slighted thing ; 
There, in the cold sarth, buried deep. 

In silence let it wait the spring. 

Mrs. Tight' s Poem on the Lily. 



I STOOD where the lip of song laid low. 
Where the dust had gather'd on beauty's brow ; 
^Vhere stillness hung on the heart of love, 
Arid a marble weeper kept watch above. 

I stood in the silence of lonely thought, 
C)f deep affections that inly wrought. 
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear — 
— They knew themselves exiled spirits here ! 

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by, 
Cliild of the sunbeam, bright butterfly ! 
Thou t'nat dost bear on thy fairy wings. 
No burden of mortal suflerings ! 

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, 
Over a bright world of joy and bloom. 
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, 
The all that sever'd thy life and mine. 

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things, 

Of love and grief its unfathom'd springs. 

And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and 

sky. 
With voices to question eternity ! 

r8 



Thine, in its reckless and joyous way, 
Like an embodied breeze. at play ! 
Child of the sunliglit! — tliou winged and free 
One moment, one moment, I envied thee ! 

Thou art not lonely, tiiough born to roam, 
Thou hast no longings that pine for home. 
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bin' 
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr'd : 

In thy brief being, no strife of mind. 
No boundless passion is deeply shrined ; 
While I — as I gazed on thy swift flight by, 
One hour of ray soul seem'd infinity ! 

And she, that voiceless below me slept, 
Flow'd not her song from a heart that wept? 
— O love and song, though of heaven you" 

powers, 
Dark is your fate in this world of ours ! 

Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place. 
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, 
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, 
Didst waft me visions of brighter things ! 

Thou, that dost image the freed soul's birth, 
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth, 
Oh ! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise 
Round tlie dark chamber where genius lies ! 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO. 



As translated from the German of Schiller, by Colonel 
D'Aguilar, and perfornaed at the Theatre Royal, Dublin, De- 
cember, 1833. 

Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band. 
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land, 
Majestic strains, but not for us had sung, — 
Mouldering to melody a stranger tongue. 
Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of 

power. 
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour ! 
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er the impassion'd lays 
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise ; 
While we, far distant, knew not, dream'd not 

aught 
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought. 
But let the barriers of the sea give way. 
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's 

sway ! 
And let the Rhine divide hi^h souls no more 
From mingling on its old heroic shore, 
Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds througli niauy 

an age. 
Have made the Poet's own free heritage ! 

To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone 
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known; 
Sounds which the thrilling i)ulse, the burning tcui 
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers hern 
And if by one, more used, on march and hcatli, 
To the shrill bugle, than the muse'" brea'ii 



422 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



VVitli a warm heart the offering hath been brought 
4nd in a trusting loyalty of thought, — 
So lot it be received ! — a Soldier's hand 
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land 
A. seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime, 
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time, 
Hath song held empire ; then if not with Fame, 
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim. 
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, 
Where once that harp " the soul of music shed !'' 



A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 



These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of 
Abbutsford, in the summer of 1829, He was then apparently 
in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long 
continuance ; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the 
very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness 
of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the hap- 
piness of approacliing him. 



Home of the gifted ! fare thee well. 

And a blessing on thee rest ; 
While the heather waves its purple bell 

O'er moor and mountain crest; 
While stream to stream around thee calls. 

And braes with broom are drest. 
Glad be the harping in thy halls — 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

While the high voice from thee sent forth, 

Bids rock and cairn reply. 
Wakening the spirits of the North, 

Like a chieftain's gathering cry ; 
While its deep master-tones hold sway. 

As a king's, o'er every breast. 
Home of the Legend and the Lay ! 

A blessing on thee rest. 

Joy to thy hearth, and board, and b • A^er ! 

Long honours to thy line ! 
And hearts of proof, and hands of power, 

And bright names worthy thine ! 
By the merry step of childhood still 

May thy free sward be prest ! 
— While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, 

A blessing on thee rest ! 



SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. 



" Oh! fondly, fervently, those two liad loved, 
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust ; 
Had watch'd bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years; 
^And thus Ihey met." 



Haste, with your torches, haste ! make firelight 

round !" 
They speed, they press — what hath the mmer 

found ! 



Relic or treasure, giant sword of old ? 

Gems, bedded deep, rich veins of burning gold ? 

— Not so — the dead, the dead ! An avve-strucjf 

band, 
In silence gathering round the silent stand, 
Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breatli, 
Before the thing that, in tJie might of death, 
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay — 
A sleeper, dreaming not ! — a youth with hair 
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair !) 
O'er his cold brow : no shadow of decay 
Had touch'd those pale bright features — yet he 

wore 
A mien of other days, a garb of yore. 
Who could unfold that mystery .'' From the 

throng 
A woman wildly broke ; her eye was dim, 
As if through many tears, through vigils long, 
Through weary strainings : — all had been for 

him! 
Those two had loved ! And there he lay, the dead, 
In his youth's flower — and she, the living, stood 
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had 

fled — 
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing 

blood 
Had long since ebb'd — a meeting sad and strange ! 
— Oh ! are not meetings in this world of change 
Sadder than partings oft ! She stood there, still, 
And mute, and gazing, all her soul to fill 
With the loved face once more — the young, fair 

face, 
'Midst that rude cavern touch'd with sculpture's 

grace, 
By torchlight and by death : — until at last 
From her deep heart the spirit of the past 
Gush'd in low broken tones : — "And there thoj 

art! 
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part 
As for a few brief hours ! — My friend, my friend ! 
First love, and only qne ! is this the end 
Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted ! Yet thy brow 
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek 
Smiles — how michanged I — while I, the worn, 

and weak. 
And faded — oh ! thou wouldst but scorn me now. 
If thou couldst look on me ! — a wither'd leaf, 
Sear'd — though for thy sake — by the blast of 

grief ! 
Better to see thee thus ! For thou didst go. 
Bearing my linage on thy heart, I know. 
Unto the dead. My Ulric ! through the night 
How have I call'd thee ! With the morning liglit 
How have I watch'd for thee ! — wept, wander'd, 

pray'd, 
Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd. 
In search of thee ! Bound my worn life to one. 
One torturing hope ! Now let me die ! 'T is gone. 
Take thy betrothed !" — And on his breast she 

fell— 
— Oh ! since their youth's last passionate fare- 

well. 
How changed in all but love ! — the true, tho 

strong. 
Joining in death whom life had parted long ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 



42H 



-They had one grave — one lonely bridal bed — 
No friend, no kinsman, there a tear to shed ! 
His name had ecascd — her heart outlived each tie, 
Onec more to look on that dead face — and die ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 



Dreamer ! and wouldst thou know 
If Love goes with us to the viewless bourne? 
Wouldst iJioii bear lienee th' unfathom'd source 
of woe 

In thy lieart's lonely urn ? 

What hath it been to thee, 
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast? 
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, 

Finding no place of rest : 

A precious odour cast 
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 
A voice of music utter'd to the blast, 

And winning no reply. 

Even were such answer thine, 
Wouldst thou be blest? — too sleepless, too pro- 
found, 
Are tliy soul's hidden springs ; there is no line 

Their depth of love to sound. 

Do not words faint and fail, 
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean's 

power ? 
As thine own cheek before high thoughts grows 
pale 
In some o'erwhelraing power ? 

Doth not thy frail form sink 
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, 
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link 

Where thy beloved are not ? 

Is not thy very soul 
Ofl in the gush of powerless blessing shed. 
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, 

Bows down thy weary head V 

And wouldst thou bear all this, 
Tiie burden and the shadow of thy life, 
To trouljle the blue skies of cloudless bliss. 

With earthly feelings' strife ? 

Not tims, not tims — oh no — 
Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care. 
That spirit of my soul should with me go, 

To breathe celestial air : 

But as the sky-lark springs 
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, 
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, 

So must love mount to Heaven ! 

Vainly it shall not strive 
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire ; 
Tliought unto thoughtsliall kindling impulse give, 

As light might wake a lyre. 



And, oh ! its blessings there 
Shower'd like ricli balsam forth on some deaj 

head. 
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, 
A joy of sunligiit shed ! 

Let me, tlien, let me dream 
That love goes with us to the sliore unknown , 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 

In mercy shall be tiirown ! 



A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA. 



'T IS lone on the waters. 
When eve's mournful bell 

Sends forth to the sunset 
A note of farewell ! 

When, borne with the shadows 
And winds as they sweep, 

There comes a fond memory 
Of Home o'er the deep ! 

When the wing of the sea-bird 

Is turn'd to her nest, 
And the heart of the sailor 

To all he loves best. 

'T is lone on the waters — 
That hour hath a spell 

To bring back sweet voices, 
And words of farewell ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE. 



Eosa, Rosa ! per che sulla tua belta 
Sempre e scritta questa parola. 



How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 
Rose ! ever wearing beauty for tliy dower ! 

The bridal day — the festival — the tomb — 

Thou hast thy part in each, tliou stateliest 
flower I 

Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 
A thousand images of love and grief, 

Dreams, fill'd with tokens of mortality. 

Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief 

Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first, 
In the clear light of Eden's golden day '. 

There thy rich leaves to crimson giory burst, 
Link'd with no dim rememb'-ance of decay 

Rose ! for the banquet gatlicr'tt, and the bici ; 

Rose ! colour'd now by human hope or pain 
Surely where deatli is not — nor :?liangc, nor fe;u 

Yet may wc meet thee. Toy's own flower 
again I 



4^4 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE BELL AT SEA. 



The dangerous islet called the Bell-Rock, on tho coast of 
Fife, used formerly to be marked only by a bell, which was so 
placed as to be swung by the motion of the VvJaves, when the 
tide rose above the rock. A light-house has since been erected 
ibp.ro: 



When the tide's billowy swell 
Had reach'd its height, 

Tlien toll'd the rock's lone bell 
Sternly by night. 

Far over clifF and surge 
Swept the deep sound, 

Making each wild wind's dirge 
Still more profound. 

Yet that funereal tone 

The sailor bless'd. 
Steering through darkness on, 

With fearless breast. 

E'en so may we, that float 

On life's wide sea. 
Welcome each warning note, 

Stern though it be ! 



THE COTTAGE GIRL. 



A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play, 
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day ; 
Tire cheerful girl her labour leaves awhile, 
To gaze on Heaven's and Earth's unsullied smile ! 
Her happy dog looks on her dimpled cheeks. 
And of his joy in his own language speaks ; 
A gush of waters, tremulously bright, 
Kindling the air to gladness with their light ; 
And a soft gloom beyond, of summer trees. 
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these, 
A low, dim, woodland cottage : — this was all ! 

What had the scene for memory to recall 
With a fond look of love ? What secret spell 
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell? 
What but the spirit of the joyous child. 
That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled, 
Casting upon the common things of earth 
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth ! 



DEATH OF AN INFANT. 



Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow. 
And dash'd it out — There was a tint of rose 
On cheek and lip, — he touch'd the veins with ice, 
And the rose faded , forth from those blue eyes 
Tlicre spoke a wislifnl tenderness, — a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound 
F'he silken fringes of their curtaining lids 



For ever ; there had been a murmuring soiuid, 
With which the babe would claim its mother's 

ear, 
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 
His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile 
So fix'd and holy from that marble brow, — 
Death gazed, and left it there ; — he dared not steal 
The signet-ring of Heaven. 



THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM 



"Thou stream. 
Whose source is inaccessibly piofound. 
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ■? 
Thou imagest my life." 

Darkly thou glidest onward. 
Thou deep and hidden wave ! 

TJie laughing sunshine hath not look'd 
Into thy secret cave. 

Thy current makes no music — 

A hollow sound we hear, 
A muffled voice of mystery, 

Aird know that thou art near. 

No brighter line of verdure 

Follows thy lonely way ; 
No fairy moss, or lily's cup, 

Is freshen'd by thy play. 

The halcyon doth not seek thee, 

Her glorious wings to lave ; 
Thou know'st no tint of the summer sky 

Thou dark and hidden wave ! 

Yet once will day behold thee, 

When to the mighty sea. 
Fresh bursting from their cavern'd veins 

Leap thy lone waters free. 

There wilt thou greet the sunshine 

For a moment, and be lost. 
With all tliy melancholy sounds. 

In the ocean's billowy host. 

Oh ! art thou not, dark river. 
Like the fearful thoughts untold, 

Which haply in the hush of night 
O'er many a soul have roll'd ? 

Those earth-born strange misgivings — 
Who hath not felt their power ? 

Yet who hath breathed them to his friend 
E'en in his fondest hour ? 

They hold no heart-communion, 

They find no voice in song. 
They dimly follow far from earth 

The grave's departed throng. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEJMS. 



425 



Wild is tlicir course, and lonely, 
And fruitless in man's breast ; 

Tlicy conic and go, and leave no trace 
Of tlieir mysterious quest. 

Yet surely must their wanderings 
At Icng-th be like thy way ; 

Their sliadows as thy waters lost, 
In one briglit flood of day ! 



THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. 
St Luke, vii. 37, 38. 



Thou that with pallid cheek, 

And eyes in sadness meek. 
And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, 

From their long wanderings won. 

Before the all-healing Son, 
Didst bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found ! 

When thou wouldst bathe his feet, 

With odours rielily sweet. 
And many a shower of woman's burning tear, 

And dry them with that hair, 

Brougiit low the dust to wear 
From the crowded beauty of its festal year. 

Did he reject thee then, 

While the sharp scorn of men 
On thy once bright and stately head was cast ? 

No, from the Saviour's mien, 

A solemn light serene, 
Dore to thy soul the peace of God at last. 

For thee, their smiles no more 

Familiar faces wore. 
Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone. 

Who raised thee up and bound 

Thy silent spirit's wound ? 
He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone ! 

But which, oh, erring child ! 

From home so long beguiled, 
Which of thine offerings won those words of 
Heaven, 

That o'er the bruised reed, 

Condemn'd of earth to bleed. 
In music pass'd, " Thy sins are all forgiven ?" 

Was it that perfume fraught 

With balm and incense, brought 
From the sweet woods of Araby the blest ? 

Or that fast flowing rain 

Of tears, which not in vain 
To Hi.n who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd ? 

No, not by these restored 

Unto thy Father's board. 
Thy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven, was made ; 

But costlier in his eyes, 

By that blest sacrifice. 
Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid. 

2D 38* 



THINGS THAT CHANGE 



Know'st thou that seas are sw^eeping 

Where cities once have been ? 
When the calm wave is sleeping. 

Their towers may yet be seen ; 
Far down below the glassy tide 
Man's dwelling 's where his voice hath died ! 

Know'st thou that flocks are feeding 

Above the tombs of old. 
Which kings, tlieir armies leading, 

Have linger'd to behold ? 
A short, smooth greensward o'er them spread 
Is all that marks where heroes bled. 

Know'st thou that now the token 

Of temples once renown'd. 
Is but a pillar, broken. 

With grass and wall-flowers crown'd ? 
And the lone serpent rears her young 
Where the triumphant lyre hath sung ? 

Well, well, I know the story 

Of ages pass'd away. 
And the mournful wrecks that glory 

Has left to dull decay. 
But thou hast yet a tale to learn 
More full of warnings sad and stern. 

Thy pensive eye but ranges 

O'er ruin'4 fane and hall. 
Oh ! the deep soul has changes 

More sorrowful than all. 
Talk not, while these before thee throng 
Of silence in the place of song. 

See scorn — where love has perish'd ; 

Distrust — where friendship grew ! 
Pride — where once nature clierish'd 

All tender thoughts and true ! 
And shadows of oblivion thrown 
O'er every trace of idols gone. 

Weep not for tombs far scatter'd, 

For temples prostrate laid — 
In thine own heart lie shatter'd 

The altars it had made. 
Go, sound its depths in doubt and fear ! 
Heap up no more its treasures here. 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEEHS 
IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. 



'Thanks bo to God for the mountains!" 

Howitt's Book of the Seasoxt 



For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty. 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge, 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we blew tliets 

Our God, our flither's God ' 



i2Q 



MRS. HEaiANS' WORKS. 



We are watchers of a beacon 

WhoFe light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Midst the silence of the sky : 
The rocks yield founts of courage, 

Struck forth as by thy rod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our father's'God ! 

For the dark resounding caverns, 

Where thy still, small voice is heard • 
For the strong pines of the forests. 

That by thy breath are stirr'd ; 
For the storms, on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our father's God ! 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights. 
And the stag that knows no master 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we, for thy communion, 

Have sought the mountain sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our father's God 

The banner of the chieftain 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves ; 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our father's God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence. 

Round our camp of rock outspread, 
For the stern defiles of battle. 

Bearing j-ecord of our dead ; 
For the snows and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our father's God ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. 



' And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the 
waters of Marah, for they were bitter. 

' And the people murmured asainst Moses, saying, What 
snail we drink 7 

And he cried unto the Lord ; and the Lord showed him a 
tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters 
were made sweet.' ' Exod. xv. 23—25. 



Where is the tree the prophet threw 

Intc the bitter wave ? 
Left it no scion where it grew. 

The thirsting soul to save ? 

* The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of 
Geslet is marked by a chapel, and called the Tcllensprung. 

t Oioicned helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned 
M Simond's Switzerland. 

rh6 Uiireihen, the celebrated Ram des Vaches. 



Hath nature lost the hidden power 

Its precious foliage shed? 
Is there no distant eastern bovver. 

With such sweet leaves o'erspread ? 

Nay, wherefore ask ? — since gifts are ours, 

Which yet may well imbue 
Earth's many-troubled founts with showers 

Of Heaven's own balmy dew. 

Oh ! mingled with the cup of griefj 

Let faith's deep spirit be ; 
And every prayer shall win a leaf 

From that blest healing tree ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE 

PEASANTS.* 



Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
TJie woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

The twilight star to heaven. 
And the summer dew to flowers 

And rest to us is given 

By the cool soft evening hours. 

Sweet is the hour of rest ! 

Pleasant the wind's low sigh, 
And the gleaming of the west, 

And the turf whereon we lie. 

When the burden and the heat 
Of labour's task are o'er. 

And kindly voices greet 
The tired one at his door. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free. 

And the reaper's work is done. 

Yes ; tuneful is the sound 

That dwells in whispering bough* 
Welcome the freshness round. 

And the gale that fans our brows. 

But rest more sweet and still 
Than ever night-fall gave, 

Our longing hearts shall fill 
In the world beyond the grave. 

There shall no tempest blow. 
No scorching noon-tide heat ; 

There shall be no more snow, 
No weary wandering feet. 

And we lift our trusting eyes. 
From the hills our fathers trod. 

To the quiet of the skies. 
To the Sabbath of our God. 



*"The loved honr of repose is striking. Let us come t« 
the sunset tree." — See Captain Sherer's interosting " Notee 
and Keflectiona during a ramble in Germany ' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4'i- 



Coino to tlic sunset tree ! 

Tlic day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done ! 



FRAGMENT. 



Oh, what is Nature's strength ? the vacant eye 
By mind deserted liath a dread reply; 
The wild delirious laughter of despair, 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there. 
— AVeep not, sad moralist, o'er desert plains, 
Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur, mouldering 

fanes. 
Arches of triumphs long with weeds o'ergrown, 
And regal cities — now the serpent's own ; — 
Earth has more dreadful ruins, one lost mind 
Wliose star is quench'd, hath lessons for mankind 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome 
Minfflinff its marble with the dust of Rome. 



THE IMAGE OF THE DEAD. 



True indeed it is 

That tliey whom death hath hidden from our sight, 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with them 
The future cannot contradict the past. 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 

Is undergone. 

Wordsworth. 

•'The love where death hath set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
Nor falsehood disavow." 

Bijron. 



[ CALL thee blest ! — though now the voice be fled. 
Which to thy soul brought day-spring with its 
tone, 
And o'er the gentle eyes, though dust be spread. 
Eyes that ne'er look'd on thine but light was 
thrown 
Far through thy breast : 

And though the music of thy life be broken. 
Or changed in every chord since he is gone. 

Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone, 
I call thee blest. 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot. 

As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm. 

For ever gone ! — the world's breath enters not, 
TJic passion-tempests may not break its calm : 
'T is thine, all thine. 

rhither, m irust unbaffled, may'st thou turn. 
From weary words, cold greetmgs, heartless 
eyes. 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn. 
That, fill'd with waters of sweet memory, lies 
In its own shrine. 



Thou hast thy home ! — there is no power in 
change 
To reach that temple of the past — no sway 
In all time brings, of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hush'd air. 

And, oh ! that glorious image of the dead ! 

Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 

Its high gifts fearlessly I — I call thee blest, 
If only there ! 

Blest, for the beautiful within thee dwelling. 
Never to fade ! — a refuge from distrust, 

A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! — it is no dream. 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love. 

The rainbow still unreach'd, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above. 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and mark'd, hast known its home and 
place. 
And the high memory of its holy worth 
To this own life a glory and a grace 
For thee hath given. 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved ? 

— Thou art !— the love his spirit bore away 
Was not for earth ! — a treasure but removed, 

A bright bird parted for a clearer day — 
Thine still in Heaven ! 



THE IVY OF KENILWORTH. 



Heard'st thou what the Ivy sigh'd, 
Waving where all else hath died. 
In the place of regal mirth. 
Now the silent Kenilworth ? 

With its many glistening leaves, 
There a solemn robe it weaves ; 
And a voice is in each fold, 
Like an oracle's of old, 

Heard'st thou, while with dews of nighi 
Shone its berries darkly bright ? 
Yes ! the whisperer seem'd to say, 
" All things — all things pass away . 

" Where I am, the harp hath rung 
Banners and proud sliields among, 
And the blood-red wine flow'd free, 
And the fire sliot sparks of glee. 

" Where I am, now last and lone. 
Queenly steps have come and gone 
Gorgeous masques have glided by. 
Unto rolling harmony. 



" Flung from these illumined towers, 
Light hath pierced tlie forest bowers, 
Lake, and pool, and fount have been 
Kindled by their midnight sheen. 

" Where is now the feasting high ? 
Where the lordly minstrelsy ? 
Where the tourney's ringing spear 7 
— I am sole and silent here 1 

" In my home no hearth is crown' d, 
Through my hall no wine foams round. 
By my gates hath ceased the lay — 
All things — all things pass away I" 

Yes ! thy warning voice I knew, 
Ivy ! and its tale is true ; 
All is passing, or hath pass'd — 
Thou, thyself, inust perish last ! 

Yet my secret soul replied, 
" Surely one thing sliall abide ; 
'Midst the wreck of ages, one, 
Heaven's eternal Word alone !" 



LIGHTS AND SHADES. 



The gloomiest day hath gleams of light, 
The darkest wave hath bright foam near it ; 

And twinkles through tlie cloudiest night 
Some solitary star to cheer it. 

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom ; 

The saddest heart is not all sadness ; 
And sweetly o'er the darkest doom 

There shines some lingering beam of gladness. 

Despair is never quite despair ; 

Nor life, nor death, the future closes ; 
And round the shadowy brow of care 

Will hope and fancy twine their roses. 



MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION. 



EUe etait du monde, ou les plus belleg clioses 

Ont le pire destin : 
Rt Ruse, elle a dure, ce que d-urent les rosos, 

L'espace d'un matin. 



Earth ! guard what here we lay in holy trust, 
That which hath left our home a darken'd 
place. 

Wanting the form, the smile, now veil'd with dust. 
The hght departed with our loveliest face. 

Yet from thy bonds, undying hope springs free — 

We have but lent our beautiful to thee. 

But thou, oh Heaven ! keep, keep what Thou hast 
taken. 
And with our treasm-e keep our hearts on high ! 



The spirit meek, and yet by pain imshaken, 

The faith, the love, the lofty constancy. 
Guide us where these are with our sister flown — 
They were of Thee, and thou hast claim' d thint 
own! 



KORNER AND HIS SISTER. 



Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young German 
poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment 
of French troops, on the 20ih of August, 1813, a few houra 
after the composition of his popularpiece, "The Sword-song." 
He was burled at the village of Wobbelin in Mecklenburgh. 
under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequenti 
deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its 
vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast iron, 
and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favour- 
ite emblem of Korner's, from which one of his works had been 
entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, 
who died of grief for his loss, having only survived him long 
enough to complete his portrait, and a drawing of his burial- 
place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his 
own lines: 

" Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht." 
Forget not the faithful dead. 
See Richardson'' s Translation of Korner^s Life and 
Works, and Downers Letters from Mccldenburgh. 



Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, 

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepesl 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest ; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd, 
Thou of the lyre and sword ! 

Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! — by the father's hand 
Here shall the child of after years be led, 

With his wreath-offering silently to stand, 
In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead 

Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With freedom and with God. 

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite, 
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore 
thee, 
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 
Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er 
thee. 
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token, 
That lyre and sword were broken. 

Thou hast a hero's tomb : — a lowlier bed 
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying, 

The gentle girl that bow'd her fair young head, 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 

Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave- 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; — but for her. 

To whom the wide world held that only spot 
She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were, 

Afid in your early deaths divided not. 
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy: — what hath 
she ? 

Her own blest place by thee ' 




FELLS 



&fl 



Fllcr 428 



MISCELLANEOb. POEMS 



423 



It was tliy spirit, brotlicr ! whicli had made 

The bright earth glorious to licr tlioughtful eye, 
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye 
play'd, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue 
sky. 
Ye were but two — and when that spirit pass'd, 
Woe to the one, the last ! 

Woe, yet not long ! — Slie lingcr'd but to trace 
Thine image Irom tlie image in her breast, 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er, 
It aiiswer'd her's no more. 

Tlie cai-th grevt^ silent when thy voice departed, 
Tlie home too lonely whem e thy step liad fled ; 

What then was left for her, the Jaithful hearted ? 
Deatli, death, to still the yearning for the dead ' 

Softly she perish'd : — be the flower deplored 
Here with the lyre emd sword ! 

Have ye not met ere now ? — so let those trust 

That meet for moments but to part for years. 
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from 
dust. 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 
Brother, sweet sister ! peace around ye dwell — 
Lyre, sword, and flower, farewell 1* 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 



"There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visits wheo most brief." 

Bernard Barton. 



By the soft green light in the woody glade. 
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd 
By the household tree through which thine eye 
First look'd in love to the summer sky ; 
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell. 
Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream. 
Which hath luU'd thee into many a dream ; 



*The following lines recently addressed to the author of 
the above, by the vennrable faiher of Korner, who, with the 
mother, still survives the "Lyre, Sword, and Flower" here 
commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the German 

reader. 
Wohllaut lent aus der Feme von freundlichen Lufton getra- 

Bcn, ■ , . . 

Sclimeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Tranernden Ohr, 
Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Vervvands- 

chaft, 
Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdiee weihn. 
Aus (lem Lanile zue dcm sich slots der gcleyerle Jungling 
Hingczogen gefuhll, wird ihm ein gl.inzender Lohn. 
Heil den) Brittischen Vollio, wenn ihm das Dculsche nicht 

frenid ist! 
Uber Lander unU Moer reichen sich beyde die Hand. 

Tluodor Koiiicr's f'atcr. 



By the shiver of the ivy-leaves 

To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves. 

By the bees' deep murmur in the limes. 

By the music of the Sabbath chimes. 

By every sound of thy native shade. 

Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth. 

When twilight call'd unto household mirth ; 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told ; 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind "Croo^l 

night;" 
By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 
Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas. 
To die on the hills of his own firesh breeze , 
And back to the gates of his father's hall. 
It" hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes 1 when thy heart in its pride would stra ^ 
Froi 1 the pure first loves of its youth away , 
When ♦he sullying breath of the world vvcu/a 

come 
O'er tue flowers it brought from its childhood'.^ 

home : 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made. 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
And the kindly spell shall have power jnce 

more 1 



THE FALLEN LIME-TREE. 

Oh, joy of the peasant ! O stately lime 
Thou art fallen in thy golden honey-time. 
Thou whose wavy shadows. 

Long and long ago, 
Screen'd our gray ibrefathers 
From the noontide's glow ; 
Thou, beneath whose branches, 

Touch'd with moonlight gleams 
Lay our early poets 
Wrapt in fairy dreams. 
O tree of our fathers! O hallow'd trot I 
A glory is gone from our home with ti.cc 

Where shall now the weary 

Rest through summer eves ? 
Or the bee find honey. 

As on thy sweet leaves ? 
Where shall now the ring-dov 

Build again her nest ? 
She so long the inmate 

Of thy fragrant breast ? 
But the sons of the peasant have lest ii V-ct: 
Far more than the ring-di fc, far more tli.m 

bee ' 



130 



.«1RS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



These may yet find coverts, 

Leafy and profound, 
Full ot dewy dimness, 

Odour and soft sound : ' 

But the gentle memories 

Clinging all to thee, 
When shall they be gatlier'd 

Round another tree ? 
O pride of our fathers ; O, hallow'd tree ! 
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee I 



THE FREED BIRD. 



Swifter than the summer's flight, 
Swifter far than youth's delight. 
Swifter far than happy night, 

Thou art come and gone ! 

As the earth when leaves are dead. 
As the night when sleep is sped. 
As the heart when juy is Hed, 

I am left here, alone ! 



Shelley. 



Return, return, my Bird ! 

J have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 
'T is lovely as a violet bank 

In the heart of forest bowers. 

" I am free, I am free, I return no more I 
The weary time of the cage is o'er ! 
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, 
The sky is around me, the bright blue sky ! 

" The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, 
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding 

deer — 
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore — 
\ am free, I am free — I return no more !" 

Alas, alas, my Bird ! 

Why seek'st thou to be free ? 
Wert thou not blest in thy little bower, 

When thy song breathed naught but glee ? 

"Did my song of summer breathe naught but 

glee ? 
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee ? 
—Oh ! hadst thou known its deep meaning well ! 
It had tales of a burning heart to tell ! 

' From a dream of the forest that music sprang, 
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; 
And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best, 
Sigh'd, for wild flowers and a leafy nest." 

Was it with thee thus, my Bird ? 

Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright ! 
I have seen the glance of sudden joy 

In its quick and dewy light. 

• It £ash'd with the fire of a tameless race, 
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place ! 
^Vith the spirit that panted through heaven to 

soar — 
Woo me not back — I return no more ! 

■VTv home is high amidst rocking trees, 
Vfy I'indred things are the star and breeze, 



And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play 
And the odours that wander afar, away !" 

Farewell, farewell then. Bird ! 

I have call'd on spirits gone. 
And it may be they joy'd like thee to part, 

Like thee, that wert all my own ! 

" If they were captives, and pined like me. 
Though Love might guard them, they joy'd to be 

free ! 
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power. 
To the strength of their witigs, to their triumph's 

hour ! 

" Call them not back when the chain is riven, 
When tlte way of the pinion is all tiirough heaven . 
Farewell ! — With my song through the clouds I 

soar, 
I pierce the blue skies — I am Earth's no more !" 



THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.* 



" His early days 

Were with him in his heart.'' 



Wordsworth 



The voices of two forest boys, 

In years when hearts entwine. 
Had fill'd with childhood's merry noise 

A valley of tlie Rhine. 
To rock and stream that sound was known, 
Gladsome as hunter's bugle-tone. 

The sunny laughter of their eyes 

There had each vineyard seen ; 
Up every cliff" wlience eagles rise, 

Their bounding step had been ; 
Ay ! their bright youth a glory threw 

O'er the wild place wherein they grew. 

But this, as day-spring's flush, was brief 

As early bloom or dew ; — 
Alas ! 't is but the wither'd leaf 

That wears the enduring hue ! 
Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore, 

Might girdle in their world no more. 

For now on manhood's verge they stood, 

And heard life's thrilling call, 
As if a silver clarion woo'd 

To some high festival ; 
And parted as young brotliers part, 
With love in each unsullied heart. 

They parted — soon the paths divide 

Wherein our .steps were one. 
Like river-branches, far and wide 

Dissevering as they run, 
And making strangers in their course 

Of waves that had the same bright source. 

Met they no more ? — once more they met, 

Those kindred hearts and true ! 
'T was on a field of death, where yet 

The battle-thunders flew, 

*For the tale on which this little poem B founded, sea 
'li'Herraite en Italie." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



431 



Though the fierce day was well-nigh past, 
Aiid the red sunset smiled its last. 

But as the combat closed, Ihcy found 

For tender tliouglits a space, 
And ev'n upon that bloody ground 

Room lor one brief embrace, 
And pour'd forth on each other's neck 
Such tears as warriors need not check. 

The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread 

All melted with those tears 
The faces of the holy dead 

Rose as in vanish'd years : 
The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blcss'd, 
Lifted its voice in each full breast ! 

Oh ! was it then a time to die ? 

It was ! — that not in vain 
The soul of childhood's purity 

And peace might turn again. 
A ball swept forth — 't was guided well — 
Heart unto heart those brothers fell. 

Happy, yes, happy thus to go ! 

Bearing from earth away 
Affections, gifted ne'er to know 

A shadow — a decay, 
A passing touch of change or chill, 

A breath of aught whose breath can kill. 

And they, between whose sever'd souls, 

Once in close union tied, 
A gulf is set, a current rolls 

For ever to divide, — 
Well may they envy such a lot, 

Whose hearts yearn on — but mingle not. 



MAN AND WOMAN. 



-Women act their parts 



When they do ma'ke their order'd houses know them. 
Men must be busy out of doors, must stir 
The city ; yea, make the great world aware 
That they are in it; for the mastery 
Of which they race and wrestle." 

Knowles. 



vVarrior ! whose image on thy tomb, 

With shield and crested head. 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stain'd window shed ; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
ifet through a cloud of years I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner from its flashing spear 

Flung out o'er many a fight; 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight; 
A.n arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy slirine, 
\ liaughty heart and kingly glance — 

Chief! were not these things thine? 



A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state, 

When the blood-red wine was pour'd ; 
A naine that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard ; 
— Surely these things were all thine own, 

So hadst thou thy reward ! 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the arm'd knight is laid. 
With meek hands folded o'er thy breast 

In matron robes array'd ; 
What was thy tale ? — Oh, gentle mate 

Of him the bold and free, 
Bound unto his victorious fate, 

What bard hath sung of thee ? 

He woo'd a bright and burning star ; 

Thine was the void, the gloom. 
The straining eye that follow'd far 

His oft-receding plume; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang — but when did fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these ? 

Thy silent and secluded hours. 

Through many a lonely day, 
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, 

With spirit far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains ; 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim, — 

These fill no minstrel-strains. 

A still sad life was thine ! — long years, 

With tasks unguerdon'd frauglit, 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears. 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayers at the cross in fervour pour'd. 

Alms to the pilgrims given ; 
O happy, happier than thy lord 

In that lone path to heaven ! 



ON THE TOMB OF MADAM LANGHANS 



"To a mysteriously consorted pair. 
This place is conseerRte; to death and life. 
And to the best afFeciions that proceed 
From this conjunction." 

Wordsworth. 



How many hopes were borne upon thy biei, 
O bride of stricken love ! in anguish hither I 
Tiike flowers, the first and fairest of the yeai, 
Pluck'd on the bosom of tlie dead to wither; 
Hopes from their source all holy, tliough ofcaiin. 
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth 

Of mingled prayer tliey told ; of sabbath hours ; 
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed mceving 
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers 
And bounding step, and smile of jo^'ous grectuiu , 



i32 



MRS. HEMAJ^S' WORKS. 



But tliou, young mother ! fco thy gentle heart, 
Didsx take thy babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! 
Their trace yet lights the dust, where thou art 

sleeping ! 
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith of thee. 

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past; 
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast, 
The long victorious note thy bondags breaking ! 
Thou hear'st, thou answerest, " God of Earth and 

Heaven ! 
Here am I, with the child whom thou 1 ast given !"* 



OWEN GLYNDWYR'S WAR 30NG. 



Saw ye the blazing star ? 

The heavens look down on freedom's war, 

And light her torch on high : 
Bright on the dragon crest 
It tells that glory's wing shall rest, 

When warriors meet to die ! 
Let earth's pale tyrants read despair 

And vengeance in its flame. 
Hail ye, my bards 1 the omen fair 

Of conquest and of fame. 
And swell the rushing mountain air. 

With songs to Glyndwyr's name. 

At tfte dead hour of night, 

Mark'd ye how each majestic height 

Burn'd in its awful beams? 
Red shone the eternal snows, 
And all the land, as bright it rose, 

Was full of glorious dreams. 
Oh ! eagles of the battles, rise ! 

The hope of Gwynedd wakes — 
It is your banner in the skies, 

Through each dark cloud that breaks, 
And mantles, with triumphal dyes. 

Your thousand hills and lakes ! 

A sound is on the breeze, 

A murmur, as of swelling seas ! 

Tlie Saxon 's on his way ! 
Lo ! spear, and shield, and lance. 
From Deva's waves, with lightning glance. 

Reflected to the day. 
But who the torrent-wave compels 

A conqueror's chains to bear ! 
Let those who wake the soul that dwells 

On our free winds beware! 
The greenest and the loveliest dells 

May be the lion's lair ! 

* Part of the monumental inscription. 



Of us tliey told the seers 

And monarch-bards of elder years, 

Who walk'd on earth as powers ; 
And in their burning strains, 
A spell of night and mystery reigns, 

To guard our mountain towers. 
— In Snow don's caves a prophet lay . 

Before his gifted sight 
The march of ages pass'd away 

With hero footsteps bright ! 
But proudest, in that long array, 

Was Glyndwyr's path of light ! 



SWISS HOME-SICKNESS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE LAST OF THE MELODIES SUNG 
BY THE TYROLESE FAMILY. 



"Herz mein Heiz, warum so traurig," &c. 



Wherefore so sad and faint, my heart ? 

The stranger's land is fair ; 
Yet weary, weary still thou art — 

What find'st thou wanting there ? 

What wanting ? — all, oh ! all I love ! 

Am I not lonely here ? 
Through a fair land in sooth I rove, 

Yet what like home is dear ? 

My home ! oh ! thither would I fly, 

Where the free air is sweet, 
My father's voice, my mother's eye, 

My own wild hills to greet. 

My hills with all their soaring steeps, 
With all their glaciers bright, 

Where in his joy the chamois leaps. 
Mocking the hmitcr's might. 

Oh ! but to hear the herd-bell sound, 
When shepherds lead the way 

Up the high Alps, and children bound 
And not a lamb will stay ! 

Oh ! but to climb the uplands free, 
And, where the pure streams foam 

By the blue shining lake, to see 
Once more my hamlet-home ! 

Here no familiar look I trace ; 

I touch no friendly hand ; 
No child laughs kindly in my face- • 

As in my own bright land ! 



THE VOICE OF GOD. 



" 1 heard thy voice in the garden, and 1 was sSimc 

Amidst the thrilling leaves, thy voice, 
At evening's fall; drew near ; 

Father ! and did not man rejoice 
That blessed sound to hear ? 



J\II&e:ELT;ANEOUS POEMS. 



4.13 



Did not his heart witliin him burn, 
Toiich'd by the solemn tone ? 

Not so ! for, never to return, 
Its purity was gone. 

rhereforc, 'midst holy stream and bower, 

His spirit siiook with dread, 
And call'd the cedars in that hour, 

To veil his conscious head. 

Oh! in each wind, eacli fountain flow 

Each whisper of the shade, 
Grant me, my God, thy voice to know. 

And not to be afraid I 



THF POETRY OF THE PSALMS. 



NoBLt thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet 
Til' Eternal on the pathway of the blast. 
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast, 
And cherubim, to waft his flying- seat 
Amidst the hills, that smoked i)eneath his feet. 

With trumpet voice thy spirit call'd aloud. 

And bade the trembhng rocks his name repeat. 

And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 

But far more gloriously to cartli made known 

By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone, 

Than flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll ; 
Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire. 
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 
Dublin, April, 1835. 



THE WANDERER. 



From the German of Schmidl Von Lubeck.* 



THE SHEPHERD POET OF THIC ALPS 



" God gave him reverence of laws. 

Yet Bl-irring bluoil in freedom's cause — 

A spirit to his rucks akin, 

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein !" 

Cole- ■' Ige, 



I COMB down from the hills alone, 
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan ; 
I wander on in thoughtful care. 
For ever asking, sighing — ^V^lere ? 

The sunshine round seems dim and cold, 
And flowers are pale, and life is old. 
And words fall soulless on my ear. 
Oh I I am still a stranger here. 

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own ? 
Still sought for, longed for, never known ! 
The land, the land of hope, of light. 
Where glow my roses, freshly bright ; — 

And where my friends the green paths tread, 
And where in beauty rise my dead ; 
The land that speaks my native speech, 
The blessed land I may not reach I 

I wander on in thoughtful care, 
For ever asking, sighing— W/zece? 
And spirit-sounds come answering this, 
" There, where thou art not, there is bliss." 

* See the original in the Dublin University Magazine for 
February, 1834 39 



Singing of the free blue sky, 
And the wild flower glens that lie 
t'ar amidst the ancient hills. 
Which the fountain-music fills ; 
Singing of the snow-peaks bright 
And the royal eagle's flight, 
And the courage and tite grace 
Foster'd by the chamois-chase : 
In his fetters day by day. 
So the shepherd-poet lay. 

Wherefore, from a dungeon cell 
Did those notes of freedom swell, 
Breathing sadness not their own, 
Forth with every Alpine tone ? 
Wherefore ? — Can a tyrant's ear 
Brook the mountain-winds to hear 
When each blast goes pealing by 
With a song of liberty ? 

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand 

O'er the shepherd-poet's land. 

Sounding there the waters gush'd, 

While the lip of man was hush'd ; 

There the fulcon pierced the cloud, 

While the fiery heart was bow'd ; 

But this might not long endure 

Where the mountain-homes were pure ; 

And a valiant voice arose. 

Thrilling all the silent snows ; 

His — now singing far and lone. 

Where the young breeze ne'er was known! 

Singing of the glad blue sky. 

Wildly — and how mournfully ! 

Are none but the wind and the lammer-geyer 
To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire ( 
[s the soul of song from the steep glens past, 
Now that their poet is chain'd at lust ? — 
Think of the mountains, and deem not so ! 
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow. 
Yes ! though forbidden be every word. 
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr'd, 
Yet ev'n as a buried stream through cartli 
Rolls on to another and brighter birth. 
So shall the voice that hath scem'd to die, 
Burst forth with the anthem of Liberty ! 

And another power is moving 

In a bosom fondly loving : 

Oh ! a sister's heart is deep. 

And her spirit 's strong to keep 

Each light link of early hours. 

All sweet scents of cliildhood's flower* ' 

Thus each lay by Erni sung 

Rocks and crystal cuvcs among, 

Or beneath tiie linden-leaves. 

Or the cabin's vino-himg caves, 



Rapid though as bird-nutes gushing, 

Transient as a wan ch sck's flushing, 

Each in young Teresa's breast 

Left its fiery words impress'd ; 

Treasured there lay every line 

As a I'ich book on a hidden shrine ; 

Fair was that lone girl, and meek, 

With a pale transparent cheek, 

And a deep fringed violet eye, 

Seeking in sweet shade to lie ; 

Or, if raised to glance above, 

Dim with its own dews of love ; 

And a pure Madonna brow, 

And a silver voice, and low, 

Like the echo of a flute, 

Even tlie last, ere all be mute. 

But a loftier soul was seen 

In the orphan sister's mien. 

From that hour when chains defiled 

Him, the high Alps' noble child ; 

Tones in her quivering voice awoke, 

As if a harp of battle spoke ; 

Light, that seem'd born of an eagle's nest, 

Flash'd from her soft eyes unrepress'd ; 

And her form, like a spreading water-flower, 

When its frail cup swells with a sudden 

shower, 
Seem'd all dilated with love and pride. 
And grief for that brother, her young heart's 

guide. 
Well might they love ! — those two had grown 
Orphans together and alone ; 
The silence of the Alpine sky 
Had hush'd their hearts to piety ; 
The turf, o'er their dead mother laid, 
Had been their altar when they pray'd ; 
There, more in tenderness than woe. 
The stars had seen their young tears flow ; 
The clouds, in spirit-like descent. 
Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent. 
And the wild storms link'd them to each 

other — 
How dear can peril make a brother ! 

I^ V is their hearth a forsaken spot, 

The vine waves unpruned o'er their mountain cot. 

Away, in that holy affection's might. 

The i^iaiden is gone, like a breeze of the night ; 

She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face. 

Filling with soul every secret place. 

Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway, 

To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, 

Like the sudden flinging forth on high, 

Of a banner that starteth silently ! 

She hath wander'd through a hamlet-vale, 

Telling its children her brother's tale; 

And the strains, by his spirit pour'd away, 

Fre(-ly as fountains might shower their spray, 

From her fervent lip a new life have caught. 

And a power to kindle yet bolder thought; 

While pometimes a melody all her own. 

Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone, 

May he heard 'midst the lonely rocks to flow, 

Cleai through the water-chimes — clear, yet low: 



" Thou 'rt not where wild flowers wavct 
O'er crag and sparry cave ; 
Thou 'rt not where pines are soundir.g, 
Or joyous torrents bounding — 

Alas, my brother ! 

" Thou 'rt not where green, on high. 
The brighter pastures lie ; 
Ev'n those, thine own wild places, 
Bear of our chain dark traces : 

Alas, my brother ! 

" Far hath the sunbeam spread. 
Nor found thy lonely bed ; 
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee, 
Nor one sweet whisper brought tliee — 
Alas, my brother ! 

" Thou, that for joy wert born, 
Free as the wings of morn. 
Will aught thy young life cherish. 
Where the Alpine rose would perish ? 
Alas, my brother ! 

"Canst thou be singing still. 

As once on every hill ? 

Is not thy soul forsaken. 

And the bright gift from thee taken ? 

Alas, alas, my brother !" 

And was the bright gift from tlie captive fled ? 
Like the fire on his hearth was his spirit dead ? 
Not so ! — but as rooted in stillness deep, 
The pure stream-lily its place will keep. 
Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver, 
While the red waves rush down the foaming 

river, 
So freedom's faith in his bosom lay, 
Trembling, yet not to be borne away ! 
He thought of the Alps and their breezy air, 
And felt that his country no chains might bear; 
He thought of the hunter's haughty lile. 
And knew there must yet be noble strife ; 
But, oh ! when thought of that orphan maid 
His high heart melted — he wept and pray'd ! 
For he saw her not as she moved e'en then, 
A wakener of heroes in every glen. 
With a glance inspired which no grief could tame, 
Bearing on hope like a torch's flame, 
While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs 
Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs ; 
But his dreams were fill'd by a haunting tone, 
Sad as a sleeping infant's moan ; 
And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye. 
Which look'd on it — oh ! how beseechingly ! 
And there floated past him a fragile form, 
With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm ; 
Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove 
In vain with its burden of helpless love ! 
— Thus v/oke the dreamer one weary night — 
There flash'd through his dungeon a swift strong 

light; 
He sprang up — he climb'd to the grating-bars, 
— It was not the rising of moon or stars, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



435 



Ci\t a signal flame from a peak of snow, 

Rock'd tliroiigh the durlc skies to and fro ! 

There sljot forth another — another still — 

A hundred answers of hill to hill ! 

Tossing like pines in the tempest's way, 

Joyously, wildly, the briglit spires pl;iy. 

And eacli is iiail'd with a pealing shout, 

For the high Alps waving their banners out ! 

Erni ! young Erni ! the land has risen ! 

— Alas ! to be lone in tliy narrow prison ! 

TJiose free streamers glaneing, and tliou not there ! 

— Is the moment of rapture, or fieree despair ? 

— Hark ! there 's a tumult that shakes his cell ! 

At the gates of the mountain citadel ! 

J lark! a clear voice through the rude sounds 

ringing, 
— Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet 

singing ? 

" There may not long be fetters 
Where the cloud is in earth's array. 
And the briglit floods leap from cave and steep, 
Like a hunter on the prey ! 

" There may not long be fetters 
Where the white Alps have their towers ; 
Unto eagle-homes, if the arrow comes, 
The chain is not for ours !" 

It is she ! — She is come like a day-spring beam. 
She that so mournfully shadow'd his dream ! 
With her siiining eyes and her buoyant form. 
She is come ! — her tears on his cheek are warm. 
And O ! the thrill in that weeping voice ! 
" My brother, my brother ! come forth, rejoice !" 

— Poet ! the land of thy love is free, 
— Sister I thy brother is won by thee ! 



THE WELCOME TO DEATH. 



"Shall I abide 
In this dull world 1 

I have 
[mmortal longings in me '." 

Antony and Cleopatra. 



Tnou art welcome, O thou warning voice. 

My soul hath pined for thee ; 
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore. 

To wanderer on tiie sea. 
I hear thee in the rustling woods, 

Tn the sighing vernal airs; 
Thou call'st me from tlie lonely earth, 

With a deeper tone than theirs. 

The lonely earth ! since kindred steps 

From its green patlis are fled, 
A dimness and a hush have fall'n 

O'er all its beauty spread. 
Tlie silence of the unanswering soul 

Is on me and around ; 
My heart hatii echoes but for thee. 

Thou still small warning sound ! 



Voice after voice hath died away. 

Once in my dwelling heard. 
Sweet household name by name hath changeJ 

To griefs forbidden word ! 
From dreams of night on each I call. 

Each of the far removed ; 
And waken to my own wild cry 

Where are ye, my beloved ? 

Ye left me ! and earth's flowers grew fill'd 

With records of the past. 
And stars pour'd down another light 

Than o'er iny youth they cast : 
The skylark sings not as he sang 

When ye were by my side, 
And mournful tones are in the wind 

Unheard before ye died ! 

Thou art welcome, O thou summoner ! 

Why should the last remain ? 
What eye can reach my heart of hearts, 

Bearing in light again ? 
Even could this be — too much of fear 

O'er love would now be thrown — 
Away, away ! from time, from change, 

To dwell amidst mine own ! 



THE PRAYER FOR LIFE. 



O SUNSHINE and fair earth ! 

Sweet is j'our kindly mirth. 
Angel of death ! yet, yet awhile delay ; 

Too sad it is to part, 

Thus in my spring of heart. 
With all the light and laughter of the day. 

For me the falling leaf 

Touches no chord of grief| 
No dark worm in the rose's bosom lies : 

Not one triumphal tone. 

One hue of hope is gone 
From song or bloom beneath the smnmer skiea. 

Call me not hence away. 

Death, death ! ere yet decay 
Over the golden hours one shade has tlirown , 

The poesy that dwells 

Deep in green woods and dells, 
Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone. 

Yet not for this, O death ! 

Not for the vernal breath 
Of winds, that shake forth music from the treea 

Not for the sj)lendour given 

To night's dark regal heaven, 
Spoiler ! I ask thee not reprieve for these. 

But for the happy love 

Whose light, wlierc'cr I rove, 
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, 

Shedding on brancli and flower 

A rainbow-tinted shower 
Of richer life — spare, &pare me yet awhile * 

Too soon, too fast thou 'rt comt 
Too beautiful is home, 



436 



MRS. HEMAJSS' WORKS. 



A liome of gentle voices and kind eyes ! 

And I the loved of all, 

On whom fond blessings fall 
Fiom every lip — oh ! wilt thou rend such ties ? 

Sweet sisters ! weave a chain 

My spirit to detain ; 
Bold me to earth with strong affection back ! 

Bind me with mighty love . 

Unto the stream, the grove, 
Oui daily paths, our life's familiar track ! 

Slay %vith me — gird me round ! 

Your voices hear a sound 
Of hope — a light comes witli you and departs : 

Hush my soul's boding knell, 

That murmurs of farewell ! 
How can I leave this ring of kindest liearts ! 

Death ! grave ! and are there those 

That woo your dark repose 
'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth ? 

Surely about them lies 

No world of loving eyes — 
Leave me, oh leave me unto home and hearth ! 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 



I iook'd on the field where the battle was spread. 
When thousands stood forth in their glancing 

array. 
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was 

slied 
Througli the dun rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd 

the fray. 

1 saw the dark forest of lances appear. 
As the ears of the liarvest unnumber'd they stood ; 
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near. 
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of 
the wood. 

Afir, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd, 
Up''ousing the wolf from the dejjtli of his lair ; 
Jn high to the gust stream'd the banner's red 

fold, 
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of 

despair. 

I Icok'd on the field of contention again, 

Wlien the sabre was sheathed and tlie tempest had 

past ; 
J ne Wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, 
Aiid the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing 

blast. 

Unmoved lay the lake in its liour of repose, 
And bright shone the stars through the sky's 

deepen'd blue ; 
And sweetly the song of the ni^ht-bird arose, 
Where the fox-glove lay geinm'd with its pearl- 
drops of dew. 

But where swept the ranks of thai aark-frowning 

host, 
As the ocean in might — as the storm-cloud in 



Where now were the thunders of victory's 

boast, — 
The slayer's dread wrath and the strength of the 

steed ! 

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, 
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their 

pride ; — 
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone. 
Where thousands lay down in their anguish and 

died! 

Oh ! Glory ! — behold thy famed guerdon's extent, 

For this toil thy slaves through their earth- wast- 
ing lot: 

A name like the mist, when night's beacons are 
spent — 

A grave, with it tenants unwept and forgot ! 



THE BROKEN LUTE. 



She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, 

'Midst forms tliat breathed from the pictured walls; 

But a glow of beauty like her own, 

Tliere had no dream of the painter thrown. 

Lit from within was her noble brow. 

As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow ; 

Her young, clear cheek had a changeful hue. 

As if ye might see how the soul wrought tlirough * 

And every flash of her fervent eye 

Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy. 

Even thus it was! — firom her childhood's 
years,— 
A being of sudden smiles and tears, — 
Passionate visions, quick light and shade, — 
Such was that high-born Italian maid! 
And the spirit of song in her bosom -cell. 
Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell, — 
Or as the sounds in iEolian strings, 
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings ; 
There, ever there, with the life enshrined. 
And waiting the call of the faintest wind. 

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea. 
In tlie city's hour of moonlight glee, — ■ 
Oft would that gift of the southern sky, 
O'erflow from her lips in melody ; 
Oft amidst festal halls it came. 
Like tlie springing forth of a sudden flame, — 
Till tlie dance was hush'd, and the silvery ton(5 
Of her inspiration was heard alone. 
And Fame went with her, the briglit, the crown'd 
And Music floated her steps around ; 
And every lay of her soul was borne 
Througli the sunny land, as on wings of morn. 

And was the daughter of Venice blest. 
With a power ^o deep in her youthful breast ' 
Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye 
So many changes and dreams went by ? 
And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought, 
As if but born from the rush of thought? 
— Yes ! in the brightness of joy awhile 
She moved, as a bark in the sunbeam's smile • 



MISCEIJ.ANEOUS POEMS. 



iSl 



For lici spirit, as over her lyre's full chord, 

All, all on a happy love was pour'd ! 

How loves a heart, whence tlic stream of song 

f'lows like tile life-blood, quicli, briglit,and strong? 

How loves a lieart whicli hath ever proved 

l,)ne breath of the world ? — Even so she loved ! 

Blest, though the lord of her soul afar. 

Was charging the foremost in Moslem war, — 

Boaring the flag of St. Mark's on high, 

As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. 

Proud music breathed in lier song, when Fame 

Gave a tone more thrilling to his high name ; 

And lier trust in his love was a woman's faith — 

Perfect, but fearing no change but death. 

But the fields are won from the Ottoman host, 
In the land that quell'd the Persian's boast ; 
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn. 
For the day of triumph and return ! 
— The day is come ! the flashing deep 
Foams where the galleys of victory sweep ; 
And the sceptred city of the wave, 
With her festal splendour greets the brave ; 
Cymbal and clarion, and voice around. 
Make the air one stream of exulting sound. 
While the beautifiil with their sunny smiles 
Look from each hall of the hundred isles. 

But happiest and brightest that day of all, 
Robed for her warrior's festival, 
Moving a queen, 'midst the radiant throng, 
Was she, th' inspired one, the maid of song ! 
The lute he loved on her arm she bore, 
As she rush'd in her joy to the crowded shore ; 
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow 
By the sunset given unto mountain-snow, 
And her eye all fiU'd with the spirit's play, 
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day, 
And her long hair waving in ringlets bright — 
So came that being of hope and light ! 
— One moment, Erminia ! one moment more, 
And hfe, all the beauty of life, is o'er ! 
The bark of her lover hath touch'd the strand — 
Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand ? 
— A young, fair form, whose nymph-like grace 
Accorded well with the Grecian face, 
And the eye, in its clear sofl; darkness meek, 
And the lashes that droop'd o'er a pale rose cheek ; 
And he look'd on that beauty with tender pride — 
The warrior hath brought back an eastern bride ! 

But how stood she, the forsaken, there. 
Struck by the lightning of swift despair ? 
Still, as amazed with grief, she stood. 
And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood, 
Ajid there came from her quivering lip no word — 
Only the fall of her lute was heard. 
As it dropt from her hand at her rival's feet, 
Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet ; 

What more remaineth ? her day was done ; 
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one ! 
The light, the vision, the gift of power, 
Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour. 
Like the rich sound from the shatccr'd string, 
Whence the gush of sweetnees no more might 
spring ! 
^ ^ 39* 



As an eagle struclc m his upward flight. 

So was her hope from its radiant heigiit, 

And her song went with it for evermore, 

A gladness taken from sea and shore ! 

Siie iiad moved to the echoing sound of fame — . 

Silentl}', silently, died her name ! 

Silently melted her life away. 

As ye have seen a young flower decay, 

Or a lamp that hath swiltly burn'd, expire. 

Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fira 

Leaving its channel all dry and mute — 

Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute ! 



THE RECALL. 



" Alas! the kind, the playful, and the gay. 
They who have gladden'd their domestic board. 
And cheer'd the winter hearth, do they return?" 
Joanna Baillie. 



Come home ! — there is a sorrowing breath 

In music since we went ; 
And the early flower-scents wander by, 

With mournful memories hlent : 
The sounds of every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep. 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wisn 

To turn aside and weep. 

O ye beloved, come home ! — the hour 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth-light and of song, 

Returns — and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room. 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, our wandering ones, 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid sea ? 
'Mid stormy hills of battles old, 

Or where dark rivers foam ? 
Oh ! life is dim where ye are not. 

Back, ye beloved ! come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring 

And swift birds o'er the main ! 
Our love is grown too sorrowfiil, 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back — 

Still, still your home is fair ; 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 



THE MASQUER'S SONG. 

The festal eve o'er earth and sky, 
In her sunset robe looks bright 

And the purple hills of Sicily, 

With their vineyards, laugh in Jight 



From the marble cities of lier plains 

Glad voices mingling swell; 
But with yet more loud and lofty strains 

They shall hail the vesper-bell. 

Oh ! sweet the tones when the summer breeze 

Their cadenoe wafts alar, 
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas, 

As they gleam to the tirst pale star. 

The shepherd greets diem on his height, 

The hermil in Jiis cell ; 
But a deeper power shiJl breathe to-night. 

In the sound of tlie vesper-bell. 



TIME'S SONG. 

O'er the level plain where mountains 

Greet me as I go, 
O'er the desei t w aste where fountains 

At my bidding flow, 
On the liouudloss beam by day, 

On tiie cloud by night, 
I am rushing hence away ! 

Who will ciidin my flight? 

War h IS wea ry watch was keeping ; 

I have crush'd his spear; 
Grief wiLhin her bower weeping, 

I h ive dr.cd her tear ; 
Pleas' ire caught a minute's hold — 

Then 1 1 iirried by. 
Leaving ali her banquet cold, 

Ai.d her goblet dry. 

Power haJ won a throne of glory— 

'Whoro is now his fame? 
Genius snid — " I live in story ;" 

Who hath heard his name ? 
Lo\e, bei\eath a myrtle bough, 

Whisjier'd — "Why so fast?" 
And the roses on his brow 

W'ither'd as I pass'd. 

I hjive heard the heifer lowing 

( >'ei the wild wave's bed, 
I have seen the billows flowing 

Where the cattle fed ; 
Wheie began my wanderings? 

Memory will not say ; 
Where will rest my weary wings ? 

Science turns away. 



TIIE HUGUENOT'S FAEEWELL. 



f siAND upon the threshold stone 

Of mine ancestral hall ; 
I hear my native river moan ; 

I setj the night o'er my old forests fall. 



I look round on the darkening vale, 

That saw my childhood's plays : 
The low wind in its rising wail 

Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. 

But I must rule my swelling breath : 

A sign is in the sky ; 
Bright o'er yon gray rock's eagle nest 

Shines forth a warning star — it bids me fly. 

My father's sword is in my hand. 

His deep voice haunts mine ear, 
He tells me of the noble band, 

Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. 

He bids their offspring guard from stain 

Their pure and lofty faith ; 
And yield up all things to maintain 

The cause, for which they girt themselve? *o 
death. 

And I obey. — I leave their towers 

Unto the stranger's tread ; 
Unto the creeping grass and flowers ; 

Unto the fading pictures of the dead. 

I leave their shields to slow decay, 

Their banners to the dust ; 
I go, and only bear away 

Their old, majestic name, — a solemn trust! 

I go up to the ancient hills. 

Where chains may never be, 
Where leap in joy the torrent rills, 

Where man may worship God, alone and free 

There shall an altar and a camp 

Impregnably arise ; 
There shall be lit a quenchless lamp. 

To shine, unwavering, through the open skies. 

And song shall 'midst the rocks be heard. 

And fearless prayer ascend ; 
While, thrilling to God's holy word, 

The mountain pines in adoration bend. 

And there the burning heart no more 

Its deep thought shall suppress, 
But the long-buried truth shall pour 

Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness. 

Then fare thee well, my mother's bower, 

Farewell, my father's hearth ! 
Perish, my home ! where lawless power 

Hath rent the tie of love to native earth. 

Perish ! let deathlike silence fall 

Upon the lone abode : 
Spread fast, dark ivy, spread thy pall : — 

I go up to the mountains, with my God. 



SABBATH SONNET. 



How many blessed groups this houi are bending 
Through England's primrose meadow paths theii 

way 
Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy ebns aa- 

cending, 



MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. 



439 



Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the liallow'd 

day. 
The lialliS, from old heroic ages gray, 
Pour their tiiir children Ibrtli ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds 

play, 

Send out their inmates in a happy flow, 
Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them tliosc pathways, — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ; — yet, oh my God ! I bless 
Tliy mercy, tliat with Sabbath peace hath fill'd 
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd 
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 



THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. 



"And none did love him, — not his lemang dear,— - 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care; 
And where lliese are, light Eros finds a frere." 

Byron. 



No mistress of tlie hidden skill, 

No wizard gaunt and grim. 
Went up by night to heath or hill, 

To read the stars for him ; 
The merriest girl in all the land 

Of vine-encircled France, 
Bestow'd upon his brow and hand 

Her philosophic glance : 
" I bind thee with a spell," said she, 

" I sign thee with a sign ; 
No woman's love shall light on thee, 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

" And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek 

Is colourless and cold. 
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak 

What only eyes have told ; 
For many a cheek of paler white 

Hath blush'd with passion's kiss ; 
And many an eye of lesser light 

Hath caught its fire from bliss ; 
Yet while the rivers seek the sea, 

And while the young stars shine, 
No woman's love shall light on thee, 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

" And 't is not that thy spirit, awed 

By beauty's numbing spell. 
Shrinks from the force, or from the fraud 

Which beaut}' loves so well ; 
For tliou hast learn'd to watch and wake, 

And swear by earth and sky ; 
And tiiou art very bold to take 

What we must still deny : 
I cannot tell : the charm was wrought 

By other tlireads than mine. 
The lips are lightly begg'd or bought, 

The heart may not be thine ! 

** Yet thine the brightest smile shall be 

That ever beauty wore. 
And confidence from two or three, 

And compliments from more j 



And one shall give — peichanco hath given, 

What only is not love ; 
Fricndshij), — oh ! suU'. ^s saints in heaven 

Rain on us from above. 
If she shall meet thee in the bower, 

Or name thee in the shrine. 
Oh ! wear the ring, ana guard the flower,-- 

Her heart may not be tiiino ! 

" Go, set thy boat before the blast. 

Thy breast before the gun : — 
The haven shall be reach'd at last, 

The battle shall be won ; 
Or muse upon thy country's laws. 

Or strike thy country's lute ; — 
And patriot hands shall sound applause, 

And lovely lips be mute : 
Go, dig the diamond from the wave. 

The treasure from the mine ; 
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave, — 

No woman's heart is thine ! 

" I charm thee from the agony 

Which others feel or feign ; 
From anger, and from jealousy. 

From doubt, and from disdain ; 
I bid thee wear the scorn of years ' 

Upon the cheek of youth. 
And curl the lip at passion's tears, 

And shake the head at truth : 
While there is bliss in revelry, 

Forgetfulness in wine. 
Be thou from woman's love as free, 

AiL woman is from thine !" 



TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND AND 
RELATIVE. 



" Bleeeed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." 



We miss thy voice while early flowers are blow- 
ing', 
And the first blush of blossom clothes each 
bough. 
And the spring sunshine round our home is glow- 
ing-, 
Soft as thy smile — thou wouldst be with us now 

With us ! — we wrong thee hy the earthly thought — 
Could our fond gaze but f illow where thou art. 

Well might the glories of tliJs world seem naught 
To the one promise given the pure in heart. 

Yet wert thou blest e'en here — oh ! ever blest 
In thine own sunny tlioughts and tranqu.) 
faith ! 

The silent joy that still o'erflow'd thy breast. 
Needed but guarding from all change by death 

So is it seal'd to peace ! — on ihy clear brov 
Never was care one fleeting shade to cast, 

And thy calm days in briglnncss were to fh-w 
A holy stream untroubled to tne last . 



440 



MRS. HKMANS' WORKS. 



F.irewell! thy life hath left surviving love 

A wealth of records and sweet "feelings given." 

I'^rom sorrow's heart the faintness to reiriove, 
By whispers breathing "less of earth than 
heaven." 

Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom 
Thy step the path of joyous duty trod, 

Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb, 

Where chasten'd thought may offer praise to 
God! 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

Happy — happier far than thou, 
With the laurel on thy brow ; 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth. 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame, 
A draught that mantles high. 

And seems to lift this earthly frame 
Above mortality. 

Away ! to me — a woman — bring 

Sweet water from affection's spring. 

Thou hast green laurel leaves that twine 

Into so proud a wreath ; 
For that resplendent gift of thine, 

Heroes have smiled in death. 
Give 7ne from some kind hand a flower. 
The record of one happy hour ! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 
Can bid each life-pulse beat, 

As when a trumpet's note hath blown. 
Calling the brave to meet : 

But mine, let mine — a woman's breast, 

By words of home-born love be bless' d. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye. 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy. 
For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame, Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed. 
The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee ? 
Not unto thee, oh ! not to thee ! 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 



Sent from England to America. 



Ves ! rear thy guardian Hero's form 
On thy proud soil, thou Western World 
A watcher through each sign of storm, 
O'er Freedom's flag unfurl'd. 



There, as before a shrine to bow. 
Bid thy true sons their children lead 
Tlie language of that noble brow 
For all things good shall plead. 

The spirit rear'd -in patriot fight. 
The Virtue born of Home and Hearth, 
There calmly throned, a holy light 
Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 

And let that work of England's hand. 
Sent through the blast and surge's roar, 
So girt witli tranquil glory, stand 
For ages on thy shore ! 

Such through all time the greetings be, 
That with the Atlantic billow sweep ! 
Telling the Mighty and the Free 
Of Brothers o'er the Deep ! 



MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.* 



Thou falcon-hearted dove ! 



Coleridge. 



The Moslem spears were gleaming 

Round Damietta's towers. 
Though a Christian banner from her wall, 

Waved free its Lily-flowers. 
Ay, proudly did the banner wave, 

As Queen of Earth and Air ; 
But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds. 

In anguish and despair. 

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon. 

Their kingly chieftain lay, 
And low on many an Eastern field 

Their knighthood's best array. 
'T was mournful, when at feasts they met. 

The wine-cup round to send. 
For each that touch'd it silently. 

Then miss'd a gallant friend ! 

And mournful was their vigil 

On the beleaguer'd wall. 
And dark their slumber, dark with dreams 

Of slow defeat and fall. 
Yet a few hearts of Chivalry 

Rose high to breast the storm. 
And one — of all the loftiest there — 

Thrill'd in a woman's form. 

A woman, meekly bending 

O'er the slumber of her child. 
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love. 

As the Virgin Mother's mild. 



* tiueen of St. Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks lo Da- 
mietta, during the captivity of the king, her husband, sh-; there 
gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in commemora- 
tion of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed to hei 
that the knights intrusted with the defence of the city had re 
solved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her apart- 
ment, and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their spirits 
that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last ex 
tremity 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



44 



Oh ! roughly cradled was thy Babe, 
'Midst the clash of spear and lance, 

And a strange, wild bower was tliine, young 
Queen : 
Fair Marguerite of France ! 

A dark and vaulted chamber, 
^ Like a scene for wizard-spell, 
Deep in the Saracenic gloom 

Of tlie warrior citadel ; 
And there 'midst arms tlie couch was spread, 

And with banners curtain'd o'er. 
For the Daughter of the Minstrel-land, 

The gay Proven9al shore ! 

For the bright Queen of St. Louis, 

Tlie star of court and hall ! — 
But the deep strength of the gentle heart, 

Wakes to the tempest's call ! 
Her Lord was in the Paynim's hold, 

His soul with grief oppress' d, 
Yet calmly lay the Desolate, 

With her young babe on her breast ! 

There were voices in the city, 

Voices of wrath and fear — 
" The walls grow weak, the strife is vain. 

We will not perish here ! 
Yield ! yield ! and let the crescent gleam 

O'er tower and bastion high ! 
Our distant homes are beautiful — 

We stay not here to die !" 

They bore those fearful tidings 

To tlie sad Queen where she lay — 
Tliey told a tale of wavering hearts, 

Of treason and dismay : 
The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek. 

The sparkle to her eye — 
" Now call me hither those recreant knights, 

From the bands of Italy !"* 

Then through the vaulted chambers 

Stern iron footsteps rang ; 
And heavily the sounding floor 

Gave back the sabre's clang. 
Tliey stood around her — steel-clad men, 

Moulded for storm and fight. 
But they quail'd before the loftier soul 

In that pale aspect bright. 

Yes — as before the Falcon shrinks 

The Bird of meaner wing, 
So shrank they fi-om th' imperial glance 

Of Her — tliat fragile thing ! 
And her flute-like voice rose clear and high, 

Through the din of arms around, 
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul. 

As a silver clarion's sound. 

" The honour of the Lily 

Js in 3'our hands to keep, 
And the Banner of the Cross, for Him 

Who died on Calvary's sleep : 



*Tlie proposal to capitulate is attributed t>y the French Iiis- 
^>iuiii to the Knights of Pisa. 
2E 



And tlie city which for Christian prayer 

Hath heard tlie holy bell — 
And is it these your hearts would yield 

To the godless Infidel ? 

" Then bring nVe here a breastplate, 

And a helm, before ye fly, 
And I will gird my woman's form. 

And on the ramparts die ! 
And the Boy whom I have borne for woe. 

But never for disgrace, 
Shall go within mine arms to death 

Meet for his royal race. 

" Look on him as he slumbers 

In the shadow of the Lance ! 
Then go, and with the Cross forsake 

The princely Babe of France ! 
But tell your homes ye left one heart 

To perish undefiled ; 
A Woman and a Queen, to guard 

Her Honour and her Child !" 

Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves 

When winds are in the wood ; 
And a deepening murmur told of men 

Roused to a loftier mood. 
And her Babe awoke to flashing swords. 

Unsheathed in many a hand. 
As they gather'd round the helpless One, 

Again a noble band ! 

" We are thy warriors. Lady ! 

True to the Cross and thee ! 
The spirit of thy kindling word 

On every sword shall be ! 
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast, 

Rest — we will guard thee well : 
St. Denis for the Lily-flower, 

And the Christian citadel !" 



THE SILENT MULTITUDE, 



For we are many in our So.itudes. 

Jyument of Taf>s 



A MIGHTY and a mingled throng 

Were gather'd in one spot ; 
The Dwellers of a thousand Homes — 

Yet 'midst them Voice was not, 

The Soldier and his Chief were there — 

The Mother and her Child : 
The friends, the Sisters of one hearth — 

None spoke — none moved, none smiled 

There lovers met, between whose lives 

Years had swept darkly by ; 
After that heart-sick hope deferr'd — 

They met — but silently. 

You might have heard the rustling icaf. 

The breeze's faintest sound, 
The shiver of an insect's wing 

On that thick-ucoplcd ground. 



442 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



your voice to whispers would have died, 

For the deep quiet's sake ; 
Your tread the softest moss have sought, 

Such stillness not to break. 

What held the countless Multitude 

Bound in that spell of peace ? 
How could the ever-sounding life 

Amid so many cease ? 

Was it some pageant of the air — 

Some glory high above, 
That link'd and hush'd those human souls, 

In reverential love ? 

Or did some burdening passion's weight 
Hang on their indrawn breath ? 

Awe — the pale awe that freezes words ? 
Fear — the strong fear of Death ? 

A. mightier thing — Death, Death himself 

Lay on each lonely heart ! 
Kindred were there — yet hermits all — 

Thousands — but each apart.' 



THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. 



" A wanderer came, as a stricken deer, 

O'er the waste of burning sand, 
He bore the wound of an Arab spear. 

He fled from a ruthless band. 

" And dreams of home, in a troubled tide 

Swept o'er his darkening eye. 
As he lay down by the fountain side, 

In his mute despair to die. 

" But his glance was caught by the desert's flower 

The precious boon of heaven ! 
And sudden hope, like a vernal shower, 

To his fainting heart was given. 

" For the bright flower spoke of One above ; 

Of the Presence, felt to brood. 
With a Spirit of pervading leve, 

O'er the wildest solitude. 

" Oh ! the seed was thrown these wastes among, 

In a blest and gracious hour ! 
For the lorn one rose, in heart made strong, 

By the lonely, loneliest flower !" 



THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 



"Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant over a 
flower in the torrid wastes of Africa "! — The aff'ectins mention 
of llie influence of a flower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in 
a time of suft'ering and despondency, in the heart of the same 
savage country, is familiar to every one." — HowitVs Book 
of the Seasons. 



Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 

O lonely, loneliest flower ! 
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd 

From human hearth or bower ? 

I pity thee, for tliy heart of love, 

For thy glowing heart, that fain 
Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove — 

In vain, lost thing ! in vain ! 

I pity thee for thy wasted bloom, 

I'or thy glory's fleeting hour, 
Fo' the desert place, thy living tomb — 

O lonely, loneliest flower ! 

I said — but a low voice made reply, 

" Lament not for the flower ! 
Though its blossoms all unmark'd must die, 

They have had a glorious dower. 

" Though it bloom afar from the minstrel's way, 

And the paths where lovers tread, 
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, 

By its odours hath been shed, 

" Yes ! dews more sweet than ever fell 

O cr island of the blest, 
Were shaken forth, from its perfiimed bell, 
It r% suffering human breast 



The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in Vo, 
Southern Hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to 1 
addressed to it by a Spanish Traveller in South America. 



In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread 
Where savannahs, in boundless magmficeuLe, 

spread ; 
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on 

high. 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fern-tree waves o'er me, the fire-fly's red light 
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the 

night. 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy load-stars resplendently burn 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I tm-n, 
Bright Cross of the South ! — and beholding thee 

shine. 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vino 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its unperishing symbol emblazon'd in thee. 

How oft in their course o'er the ocean's un- 

known. 
Where all was mysterious and awfiil and lone, 
Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, whef.' 

the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in trcmu'uus sleep ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4KI 



As the vision tliat rose to tlic lord of the world,* 
VVhca first his brigiit banner of faith was unfiu-l'd ; 
Even such to the heroes of Spain, when tiicir prow 
Made the billows the patli of their glory, wert 
thou 

And to me as I traversed the world of the vest, 
Tiiroug-h deserts of beauty in stillness that rest ; 
By forests and rivers untamed in tlieir pride, 
Thy beams have a language, thy course is a 
guide. 

Shine on — my ov\'n land is a far distant spot. 
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not. 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they 

may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on 

thee! 

But thou, to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine, 
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine ; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free. 
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee, 



THE ENGLISH BOY. 



■ Go, call thy sons ; instruct them what a debt 
They owe their anoestois ; and make them swear 
To pay it, by transmitting down entire 
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born." 

Akenside. 



Look from the ancient mountains down, 

My noble English Boy ! 
f hy country's fields around thee gleam 

In sunlight and in joy. 

A.ges have roll'd since foeman's march 

Pass'd o'er that old firm sod ; 
For well the land hath fealty held 

To Freedom and to God I 

Gaze proudly on, my English Boy ! 

And let thy kindling mind 
Drink in the spirit of high thought 

From every chainless wind ! 

There, in the shadow of old Time, 

The halls beneath thee lie, 
Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore, 

Otu' England's chivalry. 

Flow bravely and how solemnly 
They stand, 'midst oak and yew ! 

Whence Crcssy's yeomen haply framed 
The bow, in battle true. 

And round their walls the good swords hang 
Whose faith knew no alloy, 

And shields of knighthood, pure from stain- 
Gaze on, my English Boy I 



Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church 

Gleams by the antic|ue elm, 
Or where the minster lifts the cross 

High through the air's blue realm. 

Martyrs have shower'd their free hearts' blood. 
That England's prayer might rise. 

From those grey fanes of thoughtful years, 
Unfetter'd, to the skies. 

Along their aisles, beneath their trees, 

This earth's most glorious dust. 
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, 

Is laid in holy trust. 

Gaze on — gaze farther, farther yet — 

My gallant English Boy ! 
Yon bliie sea bears thy country's flag, 

The billows' pride and joy ! 

Those waves in many a fight have closed 

Above her faithful dead ; 
That red-cross flag victoriously 

Hath floated o'er their bed. 

They perish'd — this green turf to keep 

By hostile tread unstain'd ; 
These knightly halls inviolate. 

Those churches unprofaned. 

And high and clear their memory's light 

Along our shore is set, 
And many an answering beacon-fire 

Shall there be kindled yet ! 

Lifl; up thy heart, my English Boy ! 

And pray, like them to stand, 
Should God so summoiii/tee, to guard 

The altars of the laiid. 



LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ALBUM AT 

ROSANNA,* IN 1829. 



Oh ! lightly tread through these deep chestnut 

bowers. 
Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved! 
And touch with reverent hand these leaves and 

flowers. 
Fair things, which well a gentle heart hath 

loved I 
A gentle heart, of love and grief th' abode. 
Whence the bright stream of song in tear-drops 

flow'd. 

And bid its memory sanctify the scene ! 
And let th' ideal presence of the dead 
Float rotmd and touch the woods with softei 
green. 
And o'er the streams a charm, like moonlight 
shed : 
Through the soul's depths in holy silence felt— 
A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt ! 



A beautiful place in tho County of VVicklow, formeiiy to« 
abode of the authoress of ' Psyche ' 



444 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. 



Per correr miglior acqua alza le vele, 
Omai la navicella del mia Intelletto. 

Dante. 



My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born 

Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain ; 
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, 

A cloud-like weeping train ; 
Tiirough the long day they dimm'd the autumn- 
gold 
On all the glistening leaves ; and wildly roU'd, 
When the last farewell flush of light was 
glowing. 
Across the sunset sky ; 
O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing 
One melancholy dye. 

And when tlie solemn Night 

Came rushing witli her might 
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, 

Then with each fitful blast 

Prophetic murmurs pass'd. 
Wakening or answering some deep Sibyl tone, 
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise 
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies. 

" Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, " and strive 

no more. 
Faint spirit, strive no more ! — for thee too strong 

Are outward ill and wrong. 
And inward wasting fires ! — Thou canst not soar 

Free on a starry way 

Beyond their bhghting sway, 
At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore : 
How shouldst thou hope earth's fetters to unbind ? 
O passionate, yet weak 1 O trembler to tlie wind ! 

Never shall aught but broken music flow 
From ]oy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe ; 
Such homeless notes as through the forests sigh, 
From the reed's hollow shaken. 
When sudden breezes waken 
Their vague wild symphony : 
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place 
In human hearts ; their sweetness leaves no trace, — 
Born only so to die ! 

" Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, 
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, 
From thy bruis'd life again 
A moment's essence breathe ; 
Thy life, whose trampled flower 
Into the blessed wreath 
3'[ household charities no longer bound, 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 

" So fade, fade on ! thy gift of love shall cling, 
A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain, 

A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, 
All sensitive to pain i 

And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall 

O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall. 

F':)ld, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued, 

h. cold and unrepining quietude!" 



Then my soul yielded ; spells of numbing breatVi 
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death, 
Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain 
closing ; 
And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss'd 
On the chill bosom of some desert coast, 
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. 

When silently it seeni'd 
As if a soft mist gleam'd 
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, 
To many a shape and hue 
Of vision'd beauty grew, 
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. 
Oh ! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye 

Unrolling then swept by, 
With dreamy motion ! Silvery seas were there 
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies 
Of Soutiiern midnight's most transparent dyes 
And gemm'd with many an Island, wildly fair, 
Which floated past me into orient day. 
Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way. 
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering trees 
Colour'd the silvery seas. 

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose 

Height above spiry height ! 
A soaring solitude of woods and snows. 

All steep'd in golden light ! 
While as it pass'd, 'those regal peaks unveiling, 
I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings 
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, 
From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousand 
strings : 
Or as if waters forth to music leaping. 

From many a cave, the Alpine Echo's hall, 
On their bold way victoriously were svv'eeping, 
Link'd in majestic anthems ; while through all 
That billowy swell and fall, 
Voices, like ringing crystal, fill'd the air 
With inarticulate melodj% that stirr'd 
My being's core; then moulding into word 
Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise and bear 
In that great choral strain my trembling part 
Of tones, by Love and Faith struck from a human 
heart. 

Return no more, vain bodings of the night ! 

A happier oracle within my soul 
Hath svvell'd to povi'er ; — a clear unwavering lighl 
Mounts through the battling clouds that round 
me roll, 
And to a new control 
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones. 

Wherein my glad sense owns 
Th' accordant rush of elemental sound 
To one consummate harmony profound; 
One grand Creation-Hymn, 
Whose notes the Seraphim 
Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd anc* 
crown'd. 

Shall not these notes find echoes in my lyre, 
Faithful though faint ? — Shall not my spirit'? fire 
If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend 
Now to its fount and end ? 



Shall not my eartlily love, all purified, 
bliinc tbrtli a heavenward guide ? 
An angel of bright power ? — and strongly bear 
My being upward into holier air, 
Where fiery passion-elouds have no abode, 
A.nd the sky's temple-arch o'erflows witli God ? 

The radiant hope new-born 

Expands like rising morn 
In my life's life : and as a ripening rose, 
The crimson shadow of its glory throws 
More vivid, kour by hour, on some pure stream ; 

So from that liope are spreading- 

Rich hues, o'er nature shedding, 
Each day, a clearer, spiritual gleam. 

Let not those rays fade from me ; — once enjoy'd, 

Father of spirits ! let them not depart ! 
Leaving the chill'd earth, v/ithout form and void, 

Darken'd by mine own heart ! 
Lift, aid, sustain me ! Thou, by whom alone 

All lovely gills and pure 

In the soul's grasp endure ; — 
Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne 
All knowledge flows — a sea for evermore 
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore — 
O consecrate my life ! that I may sing 
Of TJiee with joy that hath a living spring, 
In a full heart of music ! — Let my lays 
Through the resounding mountains waft thy 

praise. 
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters fill. 
And make their quivering leafy dimness thrill 
To the rich breeze of song ! O ! let me wake 

The deep religion, which hath dwelt from 
yore. 
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake. 

And wildest river shore ! 
And let me summon all the voices dwelling 
Where eagles build, and eavern'd rills are welling. 
And where the cataract's organ-peal is swelling, 

In that one spirit gather'd to adore ! 

Forgive, O Father ! if presumptuous thought 

Too daringly in aspiration rise ! 
Let not thy child all vainly have been taught 

By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs 
Of sad confession ! — lowly be my heart, 

And on its penitential altar spread 
The offerings worthless, till Thy grace impart 

The fire from Heaven, whose touch alone can 
shed 
J^ife, radiance, virtue ! — let that vital spark 
I'ierec my whole being, wilder'd else and dark ! 
Thine are all holy things — O make me Tliine, 
So shall I too be pure — a living shrine 
Unto that spirit, which goes forth from Thee, 

Strong and divinely free. 
Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, 
A.nd brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing. 
Till thought, word, song, to Thee in worship 

spring, 
{mmortally eudow'd for liberty and light. 



ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT. 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges^ 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lust one ! 

I pine for thee through all the joyless day — 
Through the long night I pine : — the golden sun 
Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring 
Seems but to weep. — Where art thou, my be- 
loved ? — 

Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, 
By the old temple on the breezy cliff. 
These hands have heap'd the watch-fire, till it 

stream'd 

Red o'er the shining columns — darkly red — 
Along the crested billows ! — but in vain ; 
Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles — 
Yet thou wert faithful ever. 0~i the deep 
Hath shut above thy head — that graceful head ; 
The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved I 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lov'd one I 

Where art thou — where ? — had I but lingering 

prest 
On thy cold lips the last long kiss, — but smooth'd 
The parted ringlets of thy shining hair 
With love's fond touch, my heart's cry had been 

still'd 
Into a voiceless grief; — I would have strew'd 
With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods, — 
White violets, and the mournful hyacinth. 
And frail anemone, thy marble brow. 
In slumber beautiful ! — I would have heap'd 
Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, 
And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, 
And many a garland of the pallid rose, — 
— But thou liest far away ! — No funeral chant. 
Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine ; 
No pyre — save, haply, some long-buried wreck ;- • 
Thou that wert fairest — thou that wert nios 

loved I— 

By the blue waters — -the restless ocean waters, 
Restless as they with their many-flti'hing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lo.- 1 one . — 

Come, in the dreamy shadow of tlie niifht. 

And speak to me! — E'en though thy voice be 

changed, 
My heart would know it still. — O ! spea k to me. 
And say if yet, in some dim, far-off wc : Id, 
Which knows not iiow the festal sunshine Imrns ■ 
If yet, in some pale mead of Asphodel, 
We two shall meet again! — O ! I would ijuii 
Tlic day, rejoicingly, — the rosy liglit, — 
All tlie rich flowers and fountains musical. 
And sweef familiar melodies of earth. 
To dwell with thee below. — Thou answerc st U't 
Tlie powers, whom I have call'd upon are Miuif 



40 



446 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



The voices buried in old whispery caves, 
And by lone river-sources, and amidst 
The g-loom and myst'ry of dark, prophet-oaks, 
The Wood-gods' haunt — they give no reply ! 
All silent — heaven and earth ! — for ever more 
From the deserted mountains thou art gone — 
For ever from the melancholy groves. 
Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound! — 
And I — I pine through all the joyous day. 
Through ttie long night I pine, — as fondly pines 
The night's own bird, dissolving her lorn life 
To song in moonlight woods. — Thou hear'st me 

not! 
The Heavens are pitiless of human tears ; 
The deep sea-darkness is about thy head ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved ! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges. 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 



By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rovj 
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, 
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'c 
With founts of beauty for the eye of love. 



RECORDS 
OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



III. 

ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKY-LAKR 

Upward and upward still ! — in pearly light 
The clouds are steep'd ; the vernal spirit sighs 
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies 
Woo thee, O Birds ! to thy celestial height ; 
Bird, piercing Heaven with music ! thy free flighv 
Hath meaning for all bosoms ; most of all 
For those wherein the rapture and the might 
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn, 
For their high place : O Heirs of Genius ! learn 
From the sky's bird your way ! — No joy may fill 
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won 
To bless your songs, ye Children of the Sun ! 
Save by the unswerving flight — upward and up- 
ward still I 



These sonnets written in the months of April, May, and 
June, were intended, together with the Kecords of the autumn 
of 1834, to form a continuation of the series, entitled " Son- 
nets Devotional and Memorial," which appeared in the 
Author's last published volume, " Scenes and Hymns of 
Life." 



A VERNAL THOUGHT. 

O FESTAL Spring ! 'midst thy victorious glow 
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains, 
And streams, that bound to meet thee from their 

chains, 
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe 
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow 
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone. 
Were we of mould all earthly ; we alone, 
Sever'd froin thy great spell, and doom'd to go 
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time. 
Never to feel the breathings of our prime, 
Never to flower again ! — But we, O spring ! 
Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, 
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth. 
As here thy Flowers and Birds press on to bloom 

and sing. 



II. 

TO THE SKY. 
Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough. 
Which o'er my opening life wild music made. 
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow 
And flashing streams whereby my childhood 

play'd ; 
In the dim city, 'midst the sounding flow 
Oi' restless life, to thee in love I turn, 
O thou rich sky ! and from thy splendours learn 
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and 

blow. 
VVith thee all shape? of glory find their home, 
\nd thou hast taaght me well, majestic Dome ! 



IV. 

ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS. 

Oh ! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those, 
Who, richly dower'd for life, are call'd to die. 
Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won 

repose 
In truth's divinest ether, still and high ! 
Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh ! 
Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain, 
First notes of some yet struggling harmony. 
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain 
Of many inspirations met, and held 
From its true sphere : — Oh ! soon it might have 

swell'd 
Majestically forth ! — Nor doubt, that He 
Wliose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve 
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve 
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion 

gusts made free ! 



A THOUGHT OF TfiE SEA. 

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, 
Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chaunting main ! 
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound 
In my lone being, made thy restless plain 
As the vast shining floor of some dread fane, ^ 
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep ! 
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep. 
Never to thee did love with silvery chain 
Draw my soul's dream, which thro' all nature 

sought 
What waves deny; — some bower of steadfast bliss, 
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought. 
As with sweet flowers: — But chasten'd hope for 

this 
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from tliee, 
To thai sole changeless world, wPiere " there is no 

more sea." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



447 



VL 

DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING. 

Yet, rolling- far up some green mountain dale, 

Oft let mc hoar, as otl-times I have heard, 

Tliy swell, tliou deep ! when evening calls the bird, 

And bee to rest; when summer tints grow pale, 

Seen ttirough the gathering of a dewy veil. 

And peasant steps are hastening to repose. 

And gleaming liocks lie down, and tlower-cups 

close 
To the last whisper of the falling gale. 
Then, 'midst the dying of all other sound, 
When tlie soul hears thy distant voice profound, 
Lone-worshipping, and knows that through the 

night 
'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone 
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One, 
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might. 



IX. 

TO A DISTANT SCENE. 
Still are the cowslips from thy bosom sprmgmg 

far-off grassy dell I — and dost thou see, 
When southern winds first wake the vernal sing 

ing, 
The star-gleam of the wood anemone? 
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet — the bee 
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewel 
To their wild blooms ? and round my beechen tree 
Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell ? 
— Oh ! strange illusion by the fond heart wrouglit, 
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face ! 
— My being's tide of many-colour'd thought 
Hath pass'd from thee, and now, rich, leafy place ! 

1 paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, 
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath been. 



VII. 

THE RIVER CLVVYD IN NORTH WALES. 
O Cambrian river, with slow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers ; 
Now 'midst th}^ reeds and golden willows hiding. 
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers; 
Long flow'd the current of my life's clear hours 
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my 

dream, 
Though time and change, and other mightier 

powers, 
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth 

stream ! 
Art winding still thy sunny meads along. 
Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song, 
Low, sweet, unchanged: 3Iy being's tide hath 

pass'd 
Through rocks and storms ; yet will I not com- 
plain, 
If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, 
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep 
at last. 



VIII. 



ORCHARD BLOSSOMS. 
Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight 
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough ? 
Doth their svs^eet household smile waft back the 

glow 
Of childhood's morn? — the wondering fresh de- 
light 
In earth's pew colouring, then all strangely bright, 
A joy of fairy-land ? — Doth some old nook, 
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, 
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms 

white 
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot. 
And robin's nest, still faithful to the sjiot, 
And the bee's dreamy chime? — O gentle friend ! 
The world's cold breath, not Timfi\t, this life 

bereaves 
Of vtTnal gifts — Time hallows what he leaves. 
And will for us endear spring-memories to the end. 



X. 

THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. 
Trees, gracious trees ! how rich a gift ye are, 
Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes ! 
How doth the thought of home in lands afar, 
Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings, 

rise ! 
How the whole picture of a childhood lies 
Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep ! 
Till gazing through them up the summer skies 
As husli'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep 
And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the irmer world 
Where memory coils — and lo ! at once unfurl'd 
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight, 
Spreads clear ! while gushing from their long. 

seal'd urn. 
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers 

return. 
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light. 



XI. 

THE SAME. 

And ye are strong to shelter ! — all meek things, 
All that need home and covert, love your shade ! 
Birds of shy song and low-voiced quiet springs, 
And nun-like violets, by the wind betray'd. 
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath 

play'd 
With his first primrose-wealth : — there love hatb 

sought 
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought ; 
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, 
A refuge for her tears ; and oft-times there 
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, 
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and d'm; 
For wheresoe'er your murmuring treniours thril] 
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath stiU 
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heaid a ceaseleb* 

hymn. 



XIL 

A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERa. 
O VALE and lake, Vvitliin your mountain-iim 
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep ' 



448 



MRS. ITEMANS' WORKS. 



Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, 
Colouring- the tender shadows of my sleep 
With light Elysian : — for the hues that steep 
Your shores in inelting lustre, seem to float 
On golden clouds from Spirit-lands remote, 
Isles of the blest ; — and in our memory keep 
Their place with holiest harmonies : — Fair scene, 
Most loved by evening and her dewy star ! 
Oh ! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar 
The perfect music of the charm serene ! 
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear 
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and 
prayer ! 



XIII. 



ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILD- 
HOOD. 

GENTLE story of the Indian Isle ! 

1 loved thee in my lonely childhood well 

On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile 
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell 
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell 
Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms 
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell. 
And watch the southern cross thro' midnight 

calms, 
And track the spicy woods. — Yet more I bless'd 
Thy vision of sweet love ; kind, trustful, true. 
Lighting the citron groves — a heavenly guest, 
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. 
Even tlien my young heart wept o'er the world's 

power. 
To reach and blight that holiest Eden-flower. 



XIV. 

A THOUGHT AT SUNSET. 

SriLL that last look is solemn ! though thy rays, 
O Smi ! to-morrow will give back, we know, 
This joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow 
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze 
Tracks thee with love half fearful : — and in days 
When earth too mucJi adored thee, what a sw( 11 
Of mournful passion, deep'ning mighty lays, 
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, 

Sun of Greece ! O glorious, festal Sun ! 

1 jost, lost ' — for them thy golden hours were done, 
And darkness lay before them ! Happier far 
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd, 
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd, 
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star. 



Oh ! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain, 
And in the influence of its touch how bless'd, 
Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful 

breast, 
To household memories, for all change endear'd ! 
— The matin bird — the ripple of a stream 
Beside our native porch — the hearth-light's gleam; 
The voices, earliest by the soul revered 1 



XV. 

IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE. 

Ualm scenes of patriarch life ! — liow long a power 
Your unworn pastoral images retain. 
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour 
Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels' 

tram, 
Windmg in patience o'er the desert plain, — 
The tent — tlie palm-tree — tlie reposing flock — 
The gleaming fount — the shadow of the rock — 



XVI. 



ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. 

What secret current of man's nature turns 
Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow ? 
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, 
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow ; 
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint and 

slow, 
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind 
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know 
Where pass'd the Shepherd Fathers of mankind 
Is it some quenchless instinct which from far 
Still points to where our alienated home 
Lay in bright peace ? O thou true Eastern Star I 
Saviour ! atoning Lord ! where'er we roam, 
Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain 
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain. 



XVII. 



TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard. 
Servant of God ! — thy day is almost done — 
The charm now hung upon thy look and word 
Is that which lingers round the setting sun, 
A power wliich bright decay hath meekly won 
Still from revering love. Yet both the sense 
Of life immortal — progress but begun — 
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, 
Tliat hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline ; 
And the loved flowers which round thee smile 

farewell, 
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, 
B)' thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine ; 
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, 
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of Heaven. 



XVIII. 

FOLIAGE. 



Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive 
The joy of verdure ! — see, the honey'd lime 
Showers cool green light o'er banks where wild 

flowers weave 
Thick tapestry ; and woodbine tendrils climb 
Up the brown oak from buds of mosts and thyme. 
The ricli deep masses of the sycamore 
Hang heavy with the fullness of their prime, 
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar. 
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale 
That sweeps the boughs : — the chestnut flowers 

are past, 
The crowning glories of the hawtliorn fail, 
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4-1D 



From every licdge : — Oh ! never may we lose, 
Dear Iriond 1 our fresh delight in simplest natm-c's 
hues . 



XIX. 
A PRAYER. 

Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest flower 
On tlie high Alps or fiery desert thrown, 
Draws not sweet odom or young life alone, 
But tlie deep virtue of an inborn power 
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour, 
With thoughts of Thee ; to strengthen, to infuse 
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues 
That speak thy presence ; oh ! with such a dower 
Grace Thou my song ! — the precious gift bestow 
From tliy pure spirit's treasury divine, 
To wake one tear of purifying flow. 
To sofl;en one wrung heart for Thee and Thine ; 
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain, 
Be as the meek wild-flower's — if transient, yet 
not vain. 



XX. 

PRAYER CONTINUED. 



What in me is dark 
Illumine ; what is low raise and support. 

Milton. 



Far are the wings of intellect astray. 
That strive not. Father ! to thy heavenly seat ; 
They rove, but mount not ; and the tempests beat 
Still on their plumes : — O source of mental day ! 
Chase from before my spirit's track the array 
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care 
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, 
And veil the opening of the starry way, 
Which brightens on to thee ! — Oh I guide thou 

right 
My thought's weak pinion, clear mine inward 

sight, 
The eternal springs of beauty to discern. 
Welling beside thy throne ; unseal mine ear. 
Nature's true oracles in joy to hear : 
Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn. 



XXI. 



MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION. 
Yes ! all things tell us of a birthright lost, 
A brightness from our nature pass'd away ! 
Wanderers wo seem, that from an alien coast, 
Would turn to where tlieir Fatlier's mansion lay. 
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decay 
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, 
TJevcalintr dimly, with gray moss o'ergrown. 
The faint-worn impress of its glory's day. 
Can trnco tlicir once free heritage ; tliough dreams 
Fraught witli its picture, oft in startling gleams 
Flash o'er their Souls. — But one, oh I One alone, 
For us t!ic ruin'd fabric may rebuild. 
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd. 
With Eden-flowers — One, mighty to atone I 
40* 



RECORDS 
OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 



THE RETURN TO POETRY. 

0.\cE more the eternal melodies from far. 
Woo me like songs of home : once more discern- 
ing 
Through fitfhl clouds the pure majestic star, 
Above the poet's world serenely burning, 
Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love, is turning, 
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest. 
For those ^reen heights of dewy stillness yearn- 
ing, 
Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's unrest. 
— Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide 
Through the bright land ! — that no brief gladness, 

found 
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, 
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside : 
Their true, high quest — to seek, if ne'er to gain, 
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 



XL 

ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH WRITTEN 

BY HIMSELF. 
Spirit ! so ofl in radiant freedom soaring. 
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined. 
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind. 
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring ; 
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring. 
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, 
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring 
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise ; 
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal? 
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul 
From wealth of thine bequeathed ? O strong, and 

high. 
And sceptred intellect ! thy goal confest 
Was the Redeemer's Cross — thy last bequest 
One lesson breathing thence profound humility i 



IIL 

DREAMS OF THE DEAD. 

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face 
^Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye, 
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace. 
But all the tender pity that may lie 
On the clear brow of Inmiortality, 
Calm yet profound. Soft rays illume that micr. 
The unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off skv 
Around it floats transparently serene 
As a pure veil of watcr.s. O rich sleep ! 
Thou hast strong spirit.s in thy regions deep, 
Which glorify witli recL»ic'lii)g breath, 
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to sliine 
Beauty's high truth, and how much more di\nne 
Thy power when linked in tliis, with Ihy stern 
brother — Death J 



ISO 



..IRS. HEMANS' ^ORKS. 



IV. 

HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE. 

If e'er again my spirit be allow'd 
Converse with Nature in her chambers deep, 
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud, 
She broods o'er new-born Vaters, as they leap 
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep, 
From caves of mystery ; — if I roam once more 
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar, 
And voiceful oaks respond ; — shall I not reap 
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, 
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour, 
From such communion ? — ^yes ! I then shall know, 
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought, 
Their long, still work of preparation wrought. 
For that more perfect sense of God reveai'd below. 



V. 
ON THE DATURA ARBOREA. 

Majestic plant ! such fairy dreams as lie 
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell, 
Are not thy train : — those flowers of vase-like 

swell. 
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high. 
And in their monumental purity 
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw 
Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe 
Which broods o'er Sculpture's works. — A meet 

ally 
For those heroic forms, the simply grand. 
Art thou : and wortJiy, carved by plastic hand, 
Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine 
In spotless marble ; honouring one, whose strain 
Soar'd upon wings of thought that knew no stain 
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine. 



VI. 

ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE. 
'TwAS a bright moment of my life when first, 
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing ! 
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst 
On my glad sight ! — thy pebbly couch lay glowing 
With deep mosaic hues ; and, richly throwing 
O'er thy cliff- walls a tinge of autumn's vest. 
High bloom'd the heath-flowers, and the wild 

wood's crest 
Was touch'd with gold. — Flow ever thus, bestow- 
ing 
(ii^s of delight, sweet stream ! on all who move 
Gently along thy shores ; and oh ! if love, 
- True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow 
fraught — 
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to 

Thee, 
Then full of kindness let thy music be, 
Ringing repose to every troubled thought ! 



Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and 

lines 
Pourtray majestic buildings : — Dome and tower 
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the 

shower 
Points to th' unchanging stars ; and high arcade 
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made 
For holiest rites : meanwhile the waning hour 
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'er 

wrought, 
I sink : — O friend ! O link'd with each high 

thought ! 
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain 
All I may grasp ; until thou seest fulfill'd, 
While time and strength allow, my hope to build, 
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane ! 



VIII. 



THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. 
Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, 
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast. 
And cherubim to waft his flying seat ; 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet 
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud, 
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 
But far more gloriously to earth made known 
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone, 
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll, 
Jehovah spake, through the inbreathing fire, 
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 



IX. 

TO SILVIO PELLICO ON READING HIS 

"PRIGIONE." 

There are who climb the mountain's heathery 

side. 
Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge 
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested 

surge. 
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride 
Over the green savannas, gleaming wide 
By some vast lake ; yet thus, on foaming sea, 
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free, 
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified 
By thy brave suflering. — Thou from its dark cell 
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, 
Filling the dedicated solitude 
With God ; and where His spirit deigns to dwell, 
Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie, 
There — throned in peace divine is liberty ! 



VII. 

DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE. 
firsY float before my soul, the fair designs 
'-^''hicli I would body forth to Life and Power, 



X. 
rO THE SAME, RELEASED. 
How flows thy being now ? — like some glad hymn, 
One strain of solemn rapture ? — doth thine eye 
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim. 
O'er the crown'd Alps, that, 'midst the uppei 
sky, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



451 



Steep in the sunlight of thine Itiily ? 

Or is thy gaze of reverent Jove profound, 

Unto tliose dear parental faces bound, 

Whicli, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, 

Haunting tiiy prison-dreams? — Where'er thou art, 

Blessing be shed upon thine inmost heart, 

Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod. 

For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent 

Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent, 

Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God ! 



THE PROCESSION. 



"The peace which passeth all understanding," disclosed 
itself in her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance 
like a steady unshadowed moonlight. 

Coleridge. 



There were trampling sounds of many feet. 
And music rush'd through the crowded street ; 
Proud music, such as tells the sky, 
Of a chief return'd from victory. 

TJiere were banners to the winds unroll'd. 
With haughty words on each blazon'd fold ; 
High battle-names, which had rung of yore, 
When lances clash'd on the Syrian shore. 

Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, 
TJicre were flowers of the woods on the pathway 

strown ; 
And wheels that crush'd as they swept along — 
Oil ! what doth the violet amidst the throng ? 

I saw where a bright Procession pass'd 
The gates of a Minster, old and vast ; 
And a king to his crowning place was led. 
Through a sculptur'd line of the warrior dead. 

I saw, far gleaming, the long array 
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, 
And the colour'd light, that wrapp'd them all, 
Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall. 

But a lowlier grave rwon won mine eye 
Away from th' ancestral pageantry : 
A grave by the lordly Minster's gate, 
Unlionour'd, and yet not desolate. 

It was but a dewy greensward bed. 
Meet for the rest of a peasant head ; 
But Lpve — Oh ! lovelier than all beside ! — 
Tliat lone place guarded and glorified. 

For a gentle form stood watching there, 
Young — but how sorrowfully fal 
Keeping the flowers of the lioly s])ot. 
That reckless feet might profane them not. 

Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek. 
And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek ; 
And I dccm'd, b}' its gifted gaze of love. 
That lier sad heart's treasure was all above. 



For alone she secm'd 'midst the throng to be, 
Like a bird of the waves far away at sea ; 
Alone, in a mourner's vest array'd. 
And with folded hands, e'en as if she prav'd. 

It faded before me, that masque of pride. 
The haughty swell of tlie music died ; 
Banner, and armour, and tossing plume. 
All melted away in the twilight's gloom. 

But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, 
And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face. 
Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night-houi 

glide — 
— Oh ! Love is lovelier than all beside 



TO THE BLUE ANEMONE. 



Flower of starry clearness bright, 
Quivering urn of colour'd light. 
Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye 
From th' intcnseness of the sky ? 
From a long, long fervent gaze 
Through tJie year's first golden days, 
Up that blue and silent deep. 
Where, like things of sculptured sleep, 
Alabaster clouds repose, 
With the sunshine on their snows? 
Thither was thy heart's love turning. 
Like a censer ever burning. 
Till the purple Heavens in thee 
Set their smile. Anemone ? 

Or can those warm tints be caught 

Each from some quick glow of thought ? 

So much of bright soul there seems 

In thy bendings and thy gleams. 

So much thy sweet life resembles 

That which feels, and weeps, and tremb?fis 

I could deem thee spirit-fill'd. 

As a reed by music tlirill'd, 

Wlien thy being I behold 

To each loving breath unfold. 

Or like woman's willowy form. 

Shrink before the gathering storm ; 

I could ask a. voice from thee. 

Delicate Anemone ! 

Flower ! thou seem'st not born to dio, ' 
With thy radiant purity. 
But to melt in air away. 
Mingling with the soft spring-day. 
When the crystal heavens are still, 
And faint azure veils each hill. 
And the lime-leaf doth not move, 
Save to songs that stir the glove. 
And earth all glorified is seen, 
As imaged in some lakes serene 
— Then thy vanishing should be. 
Pure and meek Anemone ! 

Flower ! the laurel still may sheo 
Brightness round the victor's head 



And the rose in beauty's hair 

Still its festal glory wear ; 

And the willow-leaves droop o'er 

Brows which love sustains no more : 

But by living- rays refined, 

Thou, the trembler of the wind, 

Thou, the spiritual flower. 

Sentient of eacii breeze and shower, 

Thou, rejoicing in the skies, 

And transpierced with all their dyes : 

Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing, 

Gem-like to thy centre glowing, 

Thou the poet's type shalt be, 

Flower of soul, Anemone ! 



THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. 



How weeps yon gallant Band 
O'er him their valour could not save 
For the bayonet is red with gore, 
And he, the beautiful and brave. 
Now Bleeps in Egypt's sand. 

Wilson. 



In the shadow of the Pyramid 
Our brother's grave we made, 

When the battle-day was done, 

And the Desert's parting sun 
A field of death survey'd. 

The blood-red sky above us 

Was dark'ning into night. 
And the Arab watching silently 

Our sad and hurried rite. 

The voice of Egypt's river 

Came hollow and profound. 
And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, 

Rock'd with a shivery sound : 

While the shadow of tlie Pyramid 
Hung o'er the grave we made, 

When the battle-day was done. 

And the Desert's parting sun 
A field of death survey'd. 

The fathers of our brother 

Were borne to knightly tombs. 

With torch-light and with anthem-note, 
And many waving plumes : 

But he, the last and noblest 

Of that high Norman race, 
With a few brief words of soldier-love 

Was gather'd to his place ; 

In tlie shadow of the Pyramid, 
Where his youthful form we laid, 

Whf n the battle-day was done. 

And the Desert's parting sun 
A itdd of deatli survev'd 



But let him, let him slumber 

By the old Egyptian wave ! 
It is well with tiiose who bear their fame 

Unsullied to the grave ! 

When brightest names are breathed on, 

When loftiest fall so fast. 
We would not call our brother back 

On dark days to be cast. 

From the shadow of the Pyramid, 
Where his noble heart we laid. 

When the battle-day was done, 

And the Desert's parting sun 
A field of death survey'd. 



THE MAREMMA. 



Mais elle etait de monde, ou les plus belles choses, 

Ont le pire destin ; 
Et Rose elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses, 

L'cspace d'un Matin. 

JUalherbe. 



There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies. 
Where glowing suns their purest light diffuse, 
Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise. 
And nature lavishes her warmest hues ; 
But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath 
Away ! her charms are but the pomp of Deatli . 

He, in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling 
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee 

throws. 
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling. 
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose, 
And the soft sounds that througli the foliage sigh 
But woo thee still to slumber and to die. 

Mysterious danger lurks, a Syren, there. 
Not robed in terrors or announced in gloom. 
But stealing o'er thee in the scented air, 
And vcil'd in flowers, that smile to deck thy 

tomb: 
How may we deem, amidst their deep array. 
That heaven and earth but flatter to betray ? 

Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure ! can it be. 
That these but charm us with destructive wiles ? 
Where shall we turn, O Nature ! if in thee 
Danger is mask'd in beauty — death in smiles ? 
Oil ! still the Circe of that fatal shore. 
Where she, the sun's bright daughter, dvv'elt of 
yore ! 

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads. 
Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, 
And viewless blights o'er many a landscape sheds. 
Gay witli the riches of the south, in vain. 
O'er fairy bowers, and palaces of state. 
Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



453 



And pi.laicd halls, whose airy colonnades 
Were forni'd t'> cclio music's choral tone, 
Are silent, now, an)i(!st deserted shades,* 
Peopled by sculpture's gracefial forms alone ; 
And fountains dasli, unheard, by lone alcoves, 
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves. 

And tliere, where marble nymphs, in beauty 

gleaming, 
'Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise, 
Bv wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming 
Of old Arcadia's woodland deities. — 
Wild visions ! — there no sylvan powers convene, — 
Death reigns the genius of the Elysian scene. 

Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome ! that bear 
Traces of mightier beings on your brow. 
O'er you that subtle spirit of the air 
Extends the desert of his empire now ; — 
Broods o'er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, 
And makes the Cossar's ruin'd halls his home. 

Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power. 
His crown'd and chosen victims — o'er their lot 
Hath fond affection wept — each blighted flower 
In turn was loved and mourn'd, and is forgot. 
But one who perish'd, left a tale of woe. 
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. 

A voice of music, from Sienna's walls. 

Is floating joyous on the summer air. 

And there are banquets in her stately halls, 

And graceful revels of the gay and fair. 

And brilliant wreaths the altar have array'd, 

Where meet her noblest youth, and loveliest maid. 

To that young bride each grace bath Nature 

given. 
Which glows on Art's divinest dream, — her eye 
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven — 
Her cheek a tinge of morning's richest dye ; 
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form 
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci's colours 

warm.t 

But is she blest ? — for sometimes o'er her smile 
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast. 
And in her liquid glance there seems a while. 
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past. 
Yet soon it flies — a cloud that leaves no trace 
On the sky's azure of its dwelling-place. 

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise 
Remembrance of some early love or woe. 
Faded, yet scarce forgotten — in her eyes. 
Wakening the half-form'd tear that may not flow. 
Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, 
Where still some pining thought comes darkly 
o'er our mirth. 



* Ste Madame de Stacl'B fine description, in her Corinne, of 
Jie Villa Borghese, deserted on account of the Mal'aria 

t An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci's picture of his wife 
Mona Lisa, supposed to be the most perfect imitnlion of Na- 
turo ever exhibited in painting. See Vasari in his Lives of the 
Painters, 



The world before her smiles — its changeful gaze 
She hath not proved as yet — her path seems gay 
With flowers and sunshine — and the voice of 

praise 
Is still the joyous herald of her way ; 
And beauty's light around her dwells, to throw, 
O'er every scene, its own resplendent glow. 

Such is the young Bianca — graced with all 
That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give ; 
Pure in their loveliness — her looks recall 
Such dreams, as ne'er life's early bloom survive ; 
And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is 

fraught 
With sweetness, born of high and heavenl} 

thought. 

And he, to whom are breathed her vows of faith 
Is brave, and noble — Child of high descent. 
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, 
'Mid slaugliter'd heaps, the warrior's monument: 
And proudly marshall'd his carroccio'st way, 
Amidst the wildest wreck of war's array. 

And his the chivalrous, commanding mien. 
Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly 

grace ; 
Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen. 
Of fiery passions, darting o'er his face. 
And fierce the spirit kindling in his oje, — 
But e'en while yet we gaze, its quick, wild flashes 

die. 

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing 

As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse ; 

And veil the workings of each darker feeling. 

Deep in his soul concentrating its force : 

But yet, he loves — Oh ! who hath loved, jior knowi; 

Affection's power exalt the bosom all its own ? 

The days roll on — and still Bianca's lot 
Seems as a path of Eden — Thou mightst deem 
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot 
To wake her soul from life's enchanted dream ; 
And, if her brow a moment's sadness wear. 
It sheds but grace more intellectual there. 

A few short years, and all is changed — her fate 
Seems with some deep m3'sterious cloud o'ercast, 
— Have jealous doubts transform'd to wrath and 

hate. 
The love whose glow Expression's power sur- 

pass'd ? 
Lo ! on Pietra's brow a sullen gloom 
Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom. 

Oh ! can he meet that eye, of light serene. 
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance fortli, 
And view that bright intelligence of mien, 
Form'd to express but thoughts of loftiest worili, 
Yet deem that vice within tliaf heart can reign " 
— How shall he e'er confide m aught on earth 
again ? 



t See the description of this sort of consucratcd im chanol 
in Sismondi's Histoire des Repuljlitiues Itii^lennos. ice. Vol i 
p. 394. 



i.'ii 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



In silence oft, with strange, vindictive gaze, 
1'ransient, yet fill'd with meaning stern and wild, 
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, 
Then turns away, and fixes on her child 
So dark a glance, as thrills a mother's mind 
With some vague fear scarce own'd, and unde- 
fined. 

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave 
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia's shore. 
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave 
Gray rocks, with foliage richly shadow'd o'er ; 
And sighing winds, that murmur through the 

wood, 
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood. 

Fair is that house of solitude — and fair 
The green Maremma, far around it spread, 
A sun-bright waste of beauty — yet an air 
Of brooding sadiress o'er the scene is shed. 
No human footstep tracks the lone domain. 
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. 

And silent are the marble halls that rise 

'Mid founts, and cypress-walks, and olive-groves; 

All sleeps in sunshine, 'neath Cerulean skies. 

And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves ; 

Yet every trace of man reveals alone, 

That there life once hath flourish'd — and is gone. 

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing. 
The summer air, deceit in every sigh. 
Came fraught witli death, its power no sign re- 
vealing. 
Thy sires, Pietra, dvs^elt, in days gone by ; 
And strains of mirth and melody have flow'd. 
Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode. 

And thither doth her Lord, remorseless, bear 
Bianca with her child — his alter'd eye 
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear. 
While his dark spirit seals their doom — to die ; 
And the deep bodings of his victim's heart. 
Tell her, from fruitless hope at once to part. 

It is the summer's glorious prime — and blending 
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, 
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending. 
Scarce murmurs as it heaves, in glassy sleep, 
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, 
That lovely shore of solitude and light. 

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breath- 
ing, 
Deck'd with young flowers the rich Maremma 

glows. 
Neglected vines the trees are v/ildly wreathing, 
•ind the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, 
\nd far around, a deep and sunny bloom 
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. 

Yes ! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca ! fairest flower ! 
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale. 
Which, o'e- thee breathing with insidious power, 
n'Hs the young rosps of thy cheek turn pale. 



And, fatal in its softness, day by day. 

Steals from that eye some trembling spark away. 

But sink not yet — for there are darker woes. 
Daughter of Beauty ! in thy spring-morn fading, 
Suflerings more keen for thee reserved than those 
Of lingering Death, which thus thine eye are 

shading ! 
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot, 
'Tis agony — but soon to be forgot ! 

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, 
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath 
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, 
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of Death ? 
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast 
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it, to the last ! 

Such pangs were thine, young' mother ! — Thou 

didst bend 
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head, 
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, 
Keep thy sad midnight-vigils near his bed. 
And watch his patient, supplicating eye, 
Fix'd upon thee — on thee ! — who couldst no aid 

supply ! 

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe 
Through those dark hours — to thee the wind's 

low sigh, 
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow. 
Came like some spirit whispering — " He must 

die !" 
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast 
His young and sunny smiles so oft with hope had 

blest, 

'Tis past— rthat fearful trial — he is gone — 
But thou, sad mourner ! hast not long to weep. 
The hour of Nature's charter'd peace comes on. 
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep. 
A few short sufferings yet — and Death shall be 
As a bright messenger firom Heaven to thee. 

But ask not — hope not — one relenting thought 
From him who doom'd thee thus to waste away. 
Whose heart, with sullen speechless vengeance 

fraught, 
Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay, 
And coldly, sternly, silently can trace 
The gradual withering of each youthful grace. 

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come. 
When thou, bright victim ! on his dreams shalt rise 
As an accusing angel — and thy tomb, 
A martyr's shrine, be hallow'd in his eyes ! 
Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, 
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous panga 
could sting. 

Lifl: thy njeek eyes to Heaven — for all on earth, 
Young sufferer ! fades before thee — Thou ar! 

lone — 
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birtl. 
Thine hour of death is all Affliction's own ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



455 



It is our task to huffer — and our I'atc 
To Icani that mighty lesson, soon or late. 

Tlic season's glory flxdes — the vintage-lay 
Tliroug-h joyous Italy resounds no more ; 
But mortid loveliness hatli pass'd away, 
Fairer thsn aught in summer's glowing store. 
Beauty and youth ai'e gone — behold them such 
As Death hath made them with his blighting touch ! 

Tlie summer's breath came o'er them — and they 

died ! 
Sollly it came, to give luxuriance birth, 
Call'd forth young Nature in her festal pride, 
But bore to them their summons from the earth ! 
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, 
And wake to life and light all flowers — but these. 

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, 
O lost and loveliest one ! adorns thy grave. 
But o'o^ tJiat humble cypress-shaded dwelling 
The dew-drops glisten, and the wild-flowers wave — 
Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, 
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the 
tomb ! 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 



Dramatis PersoncB. 



Sebastian. 
Gonzalez, his friend. 



Zamor, a young Arab. 

Sylveira. 



SCENE L 

The sea-shore near Lisbon. 

Sebast. — GoNZAL. — Zamor. 

Sebast. With what young life and fragrance in 
its breath 
My native air salutes me ! from the groves 
Of citron, and the mountains of the vine. 
And thy majestic tide thus foaming on 
In power and freeedom o'er its golden sands. 
Fair stream, my Tajo ! youth with all its glow 
And pride of feeling through my soul and frame 
Again seems rushing, as these noble waves 
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Sweet land, 
My own, my Fathers' land, of sunny skies 
And orange bowers ! — Oh ! is it not a dream 
That thus I tread thy soil ? Or do I wake 
From a dark dream but now ? Gonzalez, say, 
Doth it not bring the flush of early life 
Back on th' awakening spirit, thus to gaze 
On the far sweeping river, and the shades 
Which in their undulating motion speak 
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born. 
After the fiery skies and dark red sands 
Of the lone desert ? Time and toil must iiecds 
Have changed our mien ; but this, our blessed land. 
Hath gain'd but riclier beauty since we bade 
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not tims ? 
Thy brow is clouded. — 



Gonzal. To mine eye the scene 

Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness, 
A hue of desolation, and the calm, 
TJie solitude and silence which pervade 
Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less 
To peace than sadness ! We have proudly stood 
Even on this shore, beside the Atlantic wave. 
When it hath look'd not thus. 

Sebast, Ay, now thy soiU 

Is in the past ! Oh no, it look'd not thus 
When tlie morn smiled upon our thousand sails, 
And the winds blew for Afric ! How that hour, 
With all its hues of glory, seems to burst 
Again upon my vision ! I behold 
The stately barks, the arming, tlie array. 
The crests, the banners of my chivalry 
Swayed by the sea-breeze till their motion show'd 
Like joyous life! How the proud billows foam'd ! 
And the oars flash'd, like lightnings of the deep, 
And the tall spears went glancing to the sun. 
And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide 
The valiant unto fame ! Aye, the blue heaven 
Seem'd for that noble scene a canopy 
Scarce too majestic, while it rung afar 
To peals of warlike sound ! My gallant bands ! 
Where are you now ? 

Gonzal. Bid the wide desert tell 

Where sleep its dead ! To mightier hosts than them 
Hath it lent graves ere now ; and on its breast 
Is room for nations yet ! 

Sebast. It cannot be. 

That all have perish'd ! Many a noble man, 
Made captive on that war-field, may have burst 
His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting houi, 
Which to my soul is as the fountain's draught 
To the pareh'd lip of fever, with a thought 
So darkly sad ! 

Gonzal. Oh never, never cast 

That deep remembrance from you ! When once 

more 
Your place is 'midst earth's rulers, let it dwell 
Around you, as the shadow of your throne. 
Wherein the land may rest. My king, this hour 
(Solemn as that which to tlie voyager's eye 
In far and dim perspective doth unfold 
A new and boundless world) may haply be, 
The last in which the courage and the power 
Of truth's high voice may reach you 1 Who may 

stand 
As man to man, as friend to friend, before 
The ancestral throne of monarchs ? Or perchance 
Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance. 
Henceforth may wait us here ! But howsoe'er 
This be, the lessons now fi'om sufferings past 
Befit all time, all change. Oh i by tlie blood. 
The free, the generous blood of Portugal, 
Shed on the sands of Afl-ic, — by the np.mes 
Which, with tlieir centuries ofhigji renown, 
There died, extinct for ever, — let not lliose 
Wiio stood in hope and glory at our side 
Here, on this very sea-beach, wlience tliey pass'd 
To fall, and leave no tropiiy, — let thcni not 
Be soon, be e'er forgotten !" lor their fate 
Bears a deep warning in its awfulncss, 
Whence power mi^^ht well Jearn wisdom ! 

Sebast. "''hinkcst thou tften 




That years of sufferance and captivity, 
Such as have bow'd down eagle hearts ere now^, 
And made high energies their spoil, have pass'd 
So lightly o'er my spirit ? It is not thus ! 
The things tiiou wouldst recall are not of those 
To be forgotten ! But my heart hath still 
A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy, 
And it is joy which whispers in the breeze 
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gon- 
zalez I 
Thou art one to make thy fearless heart a shield 
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour 
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud 

helms 
Cleft, and strong breast-plates shiver'd. Thou 

art one 
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude 
Into the captive's bosom, and beguile 
The long slow march beneath the burning noon 
With lofty patience ; but for those quick bursts, 
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast 
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights 
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound 
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose 

wing 
Wanders in chainless joy ; for things like these 
Thou hast no sympathies ! — And thou, my Zamor, 
Art wrapt in thought ! I welcome thee to this, 
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not 
A goodly heritage ? 

Zamor. The land is fair 

But he, the archer of the wilderness, 
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade 
His tents are scatter'd, and his camels rest ; 
And therefore is he sad ! 

Sebast. Thou must not pine 

With that sick yearning of the impatient heart. 
Which makes the exile's life one fever'd dream 
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away. 
And faces wearing the familiar hues. 
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known 
Tod much of this, and would not see another 
Thus daily die. If it be so with thee. 
My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark 
Yet, with her white sails catching sunset's glow, 
Lies within signal reach. If it be thus. 
Then fare thee well, farewell thou brave and true. 
And generous friend! How often is our path 
Cross'd by some being whose bright spirit sheds 
A passing gladness o'er it, but whose course 
Leads down another current, never more 
I'o blend with ours ! Yet far within our souls, 
Amidst the rushing of the busy world. 
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet 
Around that image. And e'en so, kind Zamor, 
Shalt thou be long remember'd ! 

Zamor. By the fame 

Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes 
Tell round the desert's watchfire, at the hour 
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars, 
I will not leave thee ! 'Twas in such an hour 
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay 
Shrouded in slumber's mantle, as within 
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then. 
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole 
Soft on the .sleeper '' Whose keen dart transfix'd 



The monarch of the solitudes ? I woke. 
And saw thy javelin crimson'd with his blood, 
Thou, my deliverer ! and my heart e'en then 
Call'd thee its brother. 

Sebast. For that gift of life 

With one of tenfold price, even freedom's self, 
Thou hast repaid me well. 

Zamor. Then bid me not 

Forsake thee ! Though my father's tents may rise 
At times upon my spirit, yet my home 
Shall be amidst thy mountams, Prince, and thou 
Shalt be my chief, until I see thee robed 
With all thy power. When thou canst need no 

more 
Thine Arab's faithful heart and vigorous arm, 
From the green regions of the setting sun 
Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek 
His orient wilds again. 

Sd/ast. Be near me still. 

And ever, oh my warrior ! I shall stand 
Again amidst my hosts, a mail-clad king. 
Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp 
And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place 
Then at my side. When doth a monarch cease 
To need true hearts, bold hands ? Not in the field 
Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet 
The couch of sleep. Be our friend, we will not part. 

Gonzal. Be all thy fi-iends then faithful, for 
even yet 
They may be fiercely tried. 

Sebast. I doubt them not. 

Even now my heart beats high to meet their weJ 

come : 
Let us away ! 

Gonzal. Yet hear once more, my liege : 
The humblest pilgrim, from his distant shrine 
Returning, finds not even his peasant home 
Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved face 
Which made the sun-light of his lowly board 
Is touch'd by sickness ; some familiar face 
Greets him no more ; and shall not fate and time 
Have done their work since last we parted hence 
Upon an empire? — Ay, within those years, 
Hearts from their ancient worship have fallen off. 
And bow'd before new stars : high names have 

sunk 
From their supremacy of place, and others 
Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty 

sounds 
At wliich thrones tremble. Oh ! be slow to trust 
E'en those to whom your smiles were wont to 

seem 
As light is unto flowers. Search well the depths 
Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine 
The secret of your state. Storms pass not by. 
Leaving earth's face unchanged. 

Sebast. Whence didst thou learn 

The cold distrust which casts so deep a shadow 
O'er a most noble nuture ? 

Gonzal. Life hath been 

My stern and only teacher. I have known 
Vicissitudes in all things, but the most 
In human hearts. Oh ! yet a while tame down 
That royal spirit, till the hour be come 
When it may burst its bondage ! On thy brow 
The suns of burning climes have set their seal* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4.57 



And loll, and years, and perils, have not pass'd 
O'er the bright as|)ect, and the ardent eye 
\s doth a breeze of summer. Be that ehangc 
The mask beneath whose shelter thou niay'st read 
Men's thoughts, and veil thine own. 

Sehast. Am I thus changed 

From all I was? And yet it needs must be, 
Since e'ex* my soul hath caught another hue 
From its .ong sufferings. Did I not array 
The gall-int flower of Lusian chivalry, 
And lead the mighty of the land, to pour 
Destruction on the Moslem ? I return, 
And as a fearless and a trusted friend, 
Bring, from the realms of my captivity, 
An Arab of the desert ! — But the sun 
Hath sunk below th' Atlantic. Let us hence — 
Gonzalez, fear me not. [Exeunt. 



SCENE n. 

A Street in Lisbon illuminated. 

Many Citizens. 

1st Cit. In sooth our city wears a goodly mien 
With her far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps 
Shining from all her marble palaces. 
Countless as heaven's fair stars. The humblest 

lattice 
Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling 

waves 
Fling back the light ! 

2d Cit. Ay, 'tis a gallant show ; 

And fine which serves, like others, to conceal 
Thinf(s which must not be told. 

3d Cit. What wouldst thou say ? 

2d Cit. That which may scarce, in perilous 
times like these. 
Be sp.id with safety. Hast thou look'd within 
Those stately palaces ? Were they but peopled 
With the high race of warlike nobles, once 
Their princely lords, think'st thou, good friend, 

that now 

They would be glittering with this hollow pomp, 
To greet a conqueror's entrance ? 

3d Cit. Thou say'st well 

None but a land forsaken of its chiefs 
Had been so lost and won. 

4th Cit. The lot is cast ; 

We have but to yield. Hush ! for some strangers 

come: 
Now, friends, beware. 

1st Cit. Did the King pass this way 

At morning, with his train ? 

2d Cit. Ay, saw you not 

The long and rich procession ? 

[Sehast. enters with Gonzal. and Zamor, 

Sehast. to Gonzal. This should be 

The night of some high festival. E'en thus 
My royal city to the skies sent up 
From her illumined fanes and towers a voice 
Of gladness, welcoming our first return 
From Afric's coTst. Speak thou, Gonzalez, ask 
The cause of this rejoicing. To my heart 
Deep feelings rush, so mingled and so fast, 
My voice perchance might tremble. 
2Y '41 



Gonzal. Citizen, 

What festal night is this, that all your streets 
Are throng'd and glittering thus ? 

\st Cit. Hast thou not heard 

Of the king's entry, in triumphal pomp, 
This very morn ? 

Gonzal. The King ! triumphal pomp I 

Thy words are dark. 

Sehast. Speak yet again, mine cars 

Ring with strange sounds. Again ! 

Isi Cit. I said, the King, 

Philip of Spain, and now of Portugal, 
This morning enter'd wi\n a conqueror's train 
Our city's royal palace: and for this 
We hold our festival. 

Sehast. (in a low voice.) Thou saidst — the 
King I 
His name ? I heard it not. 

l.st Cit. Philip of Spain. 

Sehast. Philip of Spain! We slumber, tili 
aroused 
By th' earth(]uake's bursting shock. Hath there 

not fallen 
A sudden darkness ? All things seem to float 
Obscurely round me. Now 'tis past. The streets 
Are blazing with strange fire. Go, quench thoso 

lamps ; 
They glare upon me till my very brain 
Grows dizzy, and doth whirl. How dared ye thus 
Light up your shrines for him ? 

Gonzal. Away, away. 

This is no time, no scene — 

Sehast. Philip of Spain ! 

How name ye this fair land ? Why — is it not 
The free, the chivalrous Portugal ? the land 
By the proud ransom of heroic blood 
Won from the Moor of old ? Did that red stream 
Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current 
In the veins of noble men, that so its tide. 
Full swelling at the sound of hostile steps. 
Might be a kingdom's barrier ? 

2d Cit. That high blood 

Which should have been our strength, profusely 

shed 
By the rash King Sebastian, bnthed the plains 
Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch's guilt 
Hath brought this ruin down. 

Sehast. Must this be heard. 

And borne and unchastised. Man, darest thou 

stand 
Before me face to face, and thus arraign 
Thy sovereign ? 

Zamor (aside to Sehast.) Shall I lift the sword, 
my Prince, 
Against thy foes ? 

Gonzal. Be still ! or all is lost 

2d Cit. I dare speak that which all men think 
and know. 
'Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life. 
And power, and treasure, that we owe these bonds. 

3d Cit. Talk not of bonds. May our new 
monarch rule 
The weary land in peace ! But who art «hou ? 
Whence comest thou, haughty stranger, mal 

these things. 
Known to all nations, should be new to thee ? 



45S 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Sebast. {ivildly) I come from regions where 
the cities He 
In ruins, not in chains. 

[Exit with Gonzal. and Zamor, 

2d Cit. . He wears the mien 

Of one that hath commanded ; yet his looks 
And words were strangely wild. 

1st Cit. Mark'd you his fierce 

And hauglity gesture, and the flash that broke 
From his dark eye, when King Sebastian's name 
Became our theme ? 

2d Cit. Trust me there's more in this 

Than may be lightly said. These are no times 
To breathe men's thoughts in th' open face of 

Heaven 
And ear of multitudes. They that would speak 
Of monarchs and their deeds should keep within 
Their quiet homes. Come, let us hence, and then 
We'll commune of this stranger. [Exeunt 



SCENE HI. 
The Portico of a Palace. 
Sebast. — Gonzal. — Zamor. 
Sehast. Withstand me not ! I tell thee that my 
soul, 
With all its passionate energies, is roused 
Unto that fearful strength which must have way 
E'en like the elements, in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation. 

Gonzal. But they wait 

That hour in silence. O ! be calm awhile, 
Thine is not come. My King — 

Sehast. I am no King, 

While in the very palace of my sires, 
Ay, where mine eyes first drank the glorious 

light, 
Where my soul's thrilling echoes first awoke 
To the high sound of earth's immortal names 
Til' usurper lives and reigns. I am no king 
Until I cast him thence. 

Zamor. Shall not thy voice, 

Be as a trumpet to the awakening land ? 
Will not the bright swords flash like sun-bursts 

forth 
When the brave hear their chief? 

Gonzal. Peace, Zamor, peace ! 

Child of the desert, what hast thou to do 
With the calm hour of counsel ? 

Monarch, pause, 

A kingdom's destiny should not be the sport 

Of passion's reckless winds. There is a time 

When men, in very weariness of heart 

And careless desolation, tamed to yield 

By misery, strong as death, will lay their souls 

E'en at the conqueror's feet, as nature sinks. 

After long torture, into cold, and dull 

And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour 

Of fierce atonement ? Ay, the slumberer wakes 

With gather'd strength and vengeance. And the 

sense 
\nd \\ie remembrance of Tiis agonies 
A.re in themselves a power, whose fearfu^ path 
■ '-• like the. path of ocean, when the Heavens 



Take off its interdict. Wait then the hour 
Of that high impulse. 

Sehast. Is it not the sun 

Whose radiant bursting through the embattled 

clouds 
Doth make it morn? The hour of which thou 

speak'st, 
Itself, with all its glory, is the work 
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid 
The sullen shades disperse. Away ! — e'en novf 
The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true, 
Shall know they have a leader. Is not this 
The mansion of mine own, mine earliest friend, 
Sylveira ? 

Gonzal. Ay, its glittering lamps too well 
Illume the stately vestibule to leave 
Our sight a moment's doubt. He ever loved 
Such pageantries. 

Sehast. His dwelling thus adorn'd 

On such a night ! Yet will I seek him here. 
He must be faithful, and to him the first 
My tale shall be reveal'd. A sudden chill 
Falls on my heart ; and yet I will not wrong 
My friend with dull suspicion. He hath been 
Link'd all too closely with mine inmost soul. 
And what have I to lose ? 

Gonzal. Is their blood nought 

Who without hope will follow where thou leadesi 
Even unto death ? 

Sebast. Was that a brave man's voice ? 

Warrior, and friend ! how long then hast thou 

learn'd 
To hold thy blood thus dear 

Gonzal. Of mine, mine own 

Think'st thou I spoke ? When all is shed for thee 
Thou'lt know me better. 

Sebast. (entering the palace.) For a while farewell 

[Exit. 
Gonzal. Thus princes lead men's hearts. Come, 
follow me. 
And if a home is left me still, brave Zamor, 
There will I bid thee welcome. [Exeunt 



A Hall within the Palace. 
Sebast. — Sylveira. 

Sylv. Whence art thou, stranger ? what wouldst 
thou with me ? 
There is a fiery wildness in thy mien 
Startling and almost fearful. 

Sebast. From the stern 

And vast and desolate wilderness, whose lord 
Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind 
Breathes of of the tomb, and whose dark children 

make 
The bow and spear their law, men bear not bacK 
That smilmgness of aspect, wont to mask 
The secrets of their spirits 'midst the stir 
Of courts and cities. I have look'd on scenes 
Boundless, and strange, and terrible ; I have 

known 
Suflrerings which are not in the shadowy scope 
Of wild imagination ; and these things 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



459 



Have st.am|)'d nie with their impress. Man of 

peace, 
Thou looli'st on one familiar with the extremes 
Of grandeur and of misery. 

Sylv. Stranger, speak 

Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time 
111 suits tlicse mysteries. I must hence ; to-night 
I feast the lords of Spain. 

Sebast. Is that a task 

For King Sebastian's friend ! 

Sylv. Sebastian's friejid ! 

That name hath lopl its meaning. Will the dead 
Rise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid 
The living for the>r mirth. The grave sets bounds 
Unto all human friendship. 

Sebast. On the plain 

Of Alcazar full many a stately flower, 
The pride and crown of some high house, was laid 
Low in the dust of Afric ; but of these 
Sebastian was not one. 

Sylv. I am not skill'd 

To deal with men of mystery. Take then off" 
The strange dark scrutiny of thine eye from mine. 
What mean'st thou ? — Speak ! 

Sebast. Sebastian died not there. 

I read no joy in that cold doubting mien. — 
Is not thy name Sylveira ? 

Sylv. Ay. 

Sebast. Why then 

Be glad. I tell thee that Sebastian lives ! 
Think thou on this — he lives ! Should he return 
— For he may yet return — and find the friend 
In whom he trusted with such perfect trust 
As should be heaven's alone — Mark'st thou my 

words ? 
— Should he then find this man, not girt and arm'd, 
And watching o'er the heritage of his lord, 
But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith, 
Holding luxurious revels with his foes, 
How wouldst thou meet his glance ? 

Sylv. As I do thine, 

Keen though it be, and proud. 

Sebast. Why thou dost quail 

Before it, even as if the burning eye 
Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul 
Through all its depths. 

Sylv. Away ! He died not there ! 

He should have died there, with the chivalry 
And strength and honour of his kingdom, lost 
By his impetuous rashness. 

Sebast. This from thee ? 

Who hath given power to falsehood, that one gaze 
At its unmask'd and withering mien should blight 
High souls at once ? I wake. And this from thee? 
There are, whose eyes discern the secret springs 
Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold 
And gems within earth's caverns, far below 
The everlasting hills : but who hath dared 
I'o dream that heaven's most awful attribute 
Invested his mortality, and to boast 
That tlirough its inmost folds his glance could read 
One lieart, one human heart ? Why then, to love 
And trust is but to lend a traitor arms 
Of keenest temper and unerring aim. 
Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, beware! 
Sebastian lives ! 



Sylv. If it be so, and thou 

Art of his followers still, then bid him seek 
Far in the wilds which gave one sepulchie 
To his proud hosts, a kingdom and a home, 
For none is lell him here. 

Sebast. This is to live 

An age of wisdom in an hour ! The man 
Whose empire, as in scorn, o'erpass'd the boundb 
E'en of the infinite deep ; whose orient realms 
Lay bright beneath the morning, while the clouds 
Were brooding in their sunset mantle, still 
O'er his majestic regions of the west ; 
This heir o'' far dominion shall return. 
And, in the rery city of his birth, 
Shall find no home ! Ay, I will tell him this, 
And he will answer that the tale is false, 
False as a traitor's hollow words of love ; 
And that tlie stately dwelling, in whose halls 
We commune now — a friend's, a monarch's gift, 
Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira, 
Should yield him still a welcome. 

Sylv. Fare thee weL 

I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words 
Are fiill of danger, and of snares, perchance 
Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain. 
I mock thy wiles to scorn. 

Sebast. Ha ! ha ! the snake 

Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning, 
Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou goest not thus. 
My heart is bursting, and I will be heard. 
What ! knowest thou not my spirit was born to 

hold 
Dominion over thine ? Thou slialt not cast 
Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand thou 

there. 
And tremble in the presence of thy lord ! 

Sylv. This is all madness. 

Stbast. Madness! no, — I say 

'Tis reason starting from her sleep, to feel 
And see, and know in all their cold distinctness, 
Things which come o'er her, as a sense of pain 
O' th' sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yef- 
Be still. Thou art used to smile and to obey ; 
Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow fast 
As from the fulness of a heart o'ercharged 
With loyal love. Oh ! never, never more 
Let tears or smiles be trusted ! When thy king 
Went forth on his disastrous enterprise. 
Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid, 
And he stood o'er thee with a look of one 
Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes 
Were fill'd with tears like thine. No ! not lik» 

thine : 
His bosom knew no falsehood, and he deem'd 
Thine clear and stainless as a warrior's shield, 
Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone 
Are brightly imaged forth. 

Sylv. What iiow avail 

Tiiese recollections ? 

Sebast. What? I have seen thee shrinb 

As a murderer from the eye of light before nie, 
I have earn'd, (how dearly and how bitterly 
It matters not, but I have earn'd at last) 
Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now ! begone, 
Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though ar 
raigned 



460 



MRS. HEMANS' WOBKS. 



E'en of Sebastian's friendship. Make l:is scorn, 

(For he loill scorn thee, as a crouching- slave 

By all high hearts is scorn'd) thy right, thy charter 

Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice 

Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee 

Be as a sign, a token of thy claim 

To all such guerdons as are shower'd on traitors, 

When noble men are crush'd. And fear thou 

not: — 
'T is but the kingly cedar which the storm 
Hurls from his mountain throne : — th' ignoble 

shrub. 
Grovelling beneath, may live. 

Sylv. It is thy part 

To tremble for thy life. 

Sehast. They that have look'd 

Upon a heart like thine, should know too well 
The worth of life to tremble. Such things make 
Brave men and reckless. Ay, and tiiey whom fate 
Would trample should be thus. It is enough — 
Thou may'st depart. 

Sylv. And thou, if thou dost prize 

Thy safety, speed thee hence. [Exit Sylveira. 

Sebast. {alone) And this is he 

Who was as mine own soul ; whose image rose 
Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought 
That on the sick man's weary couch he lay, 
Pining to share my battles ! 

[Music heard within, and voices.] 

CHORUS. 

Ye winds that sweep 

The conquer'd billows of the western deep, 

Or wander where the morn 

'Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is born, 

Waft o'er bright isles and glorious worlds the fame 

Of the crown'd Spaniard's name : 

Till in each glowing zone 

Its might the nations own, 

And bow to him the vassal knee 

Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea. 

Sebast. Away — away ! this is no place for him 
Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now 
A word of desolation. [Exit. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 



Book I. Ode XXX. 
TO VENUS. 

Oh ! leave thine own loved isle. 
Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores ! 

And here on Glycera's fair teznple smile, 
Where vows and incense lavishly she pours. 

Waft here thy glowing son. 
Bring Hermes, let the nymphs thy path surround. 

And youth unlovely till thy gifts be won. 
And the light graces with the zone unbound. 



Original of the foregoing 
O Venus, regina Gnidi Paphique, 
Sperne dilectam Cypron, et, vocantis 
Ture te multo, Glycerse decoram 
Transfer in sedem. 



Fervidus tecum puer, et solutis 
Gratia3 zonis, properentque Nympha;, 
Et, parum comis sine te, Juventas, 
Mercuriusquc. 



Book I. Ode XXXVIII. 

TO HIS ATTENDANT. 

I HATE the Persian's costly pride ; 
The wreaths with bands of Linden tied 

These, boy, delight me not ; 
Nor where the lingering roses bide. 

Seek thou for me the spot. 
For me be nought but myrtle twined ; 
The modest myrtle, meet to bind 

Alike thy brows and mine ; 
Wliile thus 1 quaff the bowl, reclined 

Beneath the o'erarching vine. 



Original of the foregoing, 

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus : 
Displicent nexse philyra coronse : 
Mitte sectari, rosa quo locorum 

Sera moretur. 
Simplici myrto nihil allabores 
Sedulus, euro. Neque te ministrum 
Dedecet myrtus, neque me sub arcta 

Vite bibentem. 



Book II. Ode III 
TO DELIUS. 

Firm be thy soul ! — serene in power, 
When adverse Fortune clouds the sky; 

Undazzled by the trium.ph's hour, 
Since, Delius, thou must die ! 

Alike if still to grief resign'd. 

Or if through festal days 'tis thine 

To quaff, in grassy haunts reclined, 
The old Falernian wine : 

Haunts where the silvery poplar-boughs 
Love with the pine's to blend on high, 

And some clear fountain brightly flows 
In graceful windings by. 

There be the rose, with beauty fraught 
So soon to fade, so brilliant now, 

There be the wine, the odours brought, 
While Time and Fate allow ! 

For thou, resigning to thine heir. 

Thy halls, thy bowers, tliy treasured store 

Must leave that home, those woodlands fair, 
On yellow Tyber's shore. 

What then avails it if thou trace 
From Inachus tliy glorious line ? 

Or, sprung from some ignoble race 
If not a roof be thine ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



461 



Since the dread lot for all must leap 
Forth from the dark revolving urn, 

And wc must tempt the gloomy deep, 
Whence exiles ne'er return. 



Original of the foregoing. 

iEauAM memento rebus in arduia 
Servare mentem, non secus in bonis 
Ab insolenti temperatam 
Lcetitia ; moriture Delli, 
Seu moestus omni tempore vixeris, 
Seu te in remoto gramine per dies 
Festos reclinatum bearis 
Interiore nota Falerni. 
Qua pinus ingens, albaque populus, 
Umbrani hospitalem consociare amant 
Ramis, et obliquo laborat 

Lympha fugax trepidare rivo ; 
Hue vina, et unguenta, et nimium brevis 
Flores amcenos ferre jube rosae, 
Dum res, ct stas, et sororum 
Fila trium patiuntur atra. 
Cedes coemtis saltibus, et dome, 
ViMque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit 
Cedes ; et exstructis in altum 
Divitiis potietur heres. 
Divesne prisco natus ab Inacho, 
Nil interest, an pauper et infimS, 
De gente, sub divo moreris, 
Victima nil miserantis Orci. 
Omnes eodem cogimur : omnium 
Versatur urna, serius, ocius 

Sors exitura, et nos in aBternum 
Exsilium impositura cyrabse. 



Book Til. Ode XIII. 
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 

Oh, worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 
Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright 

'i'o-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, 

Whose forehead swells with horns of infant 
might : 

I'lv'n now of love and war he dreams in vain, 

] »oomed with his blood thy gelid wave to stain. 

] et the red Dog-star burn ! — his scorching beam, 
Fieice in resplendence shall molest not thee! 

flill siiolter'd from his rage, thy banks, fair 
siream. 
To the wild flock around thee wandering fi-ee. 

And the tired oxen from the furrow'd field ; 

Tlie genial freshness of their breatii shall yield. 

And thou, bright Fount ! ennobled and renown'd. 

Shall by thy poet's votive song be made ; 
1 hou and the oak with deathless verdure 
crown 'd, 
Whose boughs, a pendant canopy, o'ershade 
T hose hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a 

tale, 
Thy chiming waters poifr upon the vale. 

41* 



Original of the foregoing. 

O fons Bandusia3, splendidior vitro, 
Dulei digne mero, non sine floribus, 
Cras donaberis hasdo ; 

Cui frons, turgida cornibus 
Primis, et Vencrcm et proelia destinat 
Frustra ; nam gelidos inficiet tibi 
Rubro sanguine rivos 
Lascivi suboles gregis. 
Te flagrantis atrox hora Caniculoe 
Nescit tangere : tu frigus amabile 
Fessis vomere tauris 
Praebes, et pecori vago. 
Fies nobilium tu quoque frontium, 
Me dicente cavis impositam ilicem 
Saxis, unde loquaces 
Lymphse desiliunt tuae. 



Book III. Ode XVIIL 

TO FAUNTJS. 

Faunps! who lov'st the flying Nymphs to chas(^ 
O let thy steps with genial influence tread 

My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace. 
Left on my nursling groves, and borders shed 

If, at the mellow closing of the year, 
A tender kid in sacrifice be thine ; 

Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear ; 

Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine 

Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays. 
When the December feast returns to thee , 

Calmly the ox along the pasture strays. 
With festal villagers from toil set free. 

Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat,, 
Then shower the woods to thee their foHag» 
round ; 

And the glad labourer triumphs that his feet 
In triple dance have struck the hated ground. 



Original of the foregoing. 

Faune, Nympharum fugientuni amator, 
Per meos fines et aprica rura 
Lenis incedas, abeasque parvis 

iEquus alunmis ; 
Si tener pleno cadit hffidus anno. 
Largo nee desunt, Veneris sodali, 
Vina crateras, vetus ara multo 

Fumat odore. 
Ludit herboso pccus omne campo, 
Cum tibi Nonas redeunt Decembres : 
Festus in pratis vacat otioso 

Cum hove pagus : 
Inter audaces lupus errat agnos : 
Spargit agrestes tibi silva f'-onde?: 
Gaudet invisam populisse ll-ssor 

Ter pcde terram. 



4C2 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS 



IN IMITATION OF PAE.T OF ODE III. BOOK II.* 

Bring, bring odours to the embowering shade 
Where tlie tall pine and poplar blend on high ; 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade, 
Snatch every brief delight, for thou must die ; 
Must bid thy groves farewell, thy stately dome, 
Thy fair retreat on yellow Tyber's shore, 
Whilst other inmates revel in thy home, 
And claim thy piles of wealth; thine own no 

more. 
He who relents not, dooms thee soon to tread 
The shore whence none return — the country of 

the dead. 



ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA. 



From the Italian of Pindemonte. 



WhiTHER, celestial maid, so fast away? 
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies? 
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day. 
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs ? 
— O thou, Canova ! soaring high above 
T.alian art, — with Grecian magic vying ! 
We knew thy marble glow'd with life and love, 
But who had seen thee image footsteps flying ? 
— Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing 
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying 
In many a line of undulating grace ; 
While nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending. 
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending. 
One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to 
trace. 



From tte -iuian of Filicaya. 



TALiA, oh ! Italia ! thou, so graced 
With ill-starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been 
A dower, whose fatal splendour may be traced 
In the deep graven sorrows of thy mien ; 
Oh ! that more strength, or fewer charms were 

thine ! 
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less. 
Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine. 
Then pierce thee with the death-pang's bitterness ! 
Not then would foreign hosts have drain'd the tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed ; 
Nor from, the Alps would legions, still renew'd, 
Pour down' nor wouldst thou wield an alien 

brand, 
And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued ! 



' Originally introduced in the " Last Constantine." 



ODE ON THE DEFEAT. OF 

KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGA^ AND 
HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA. 



Translated from the Spanish of Herreia. 



Ferdinand de Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was a Spanish 
Poet, who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is still con- 
sidered by the Castilians as one of their classic writers. He 
aimed at the introduction of a new style into Spanish Poetry, 
and his lyrics are distinguished by the sustained majesty of their 
language, the frequent recurrence of expressions and images, 
derived apparently from a fervent study of the prophetic books 
of Scripture, and the lofty tone of national piide maintained 
throughout, and justified indeed by the nature of the subjects 
to which some of these productions are devoted. This last 
characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic feeling 
of religion, which rather exalts, than tempers, the haughty 
confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. 
Spain is to him, what Judea was to the bards who sung be- 
neath the shadow of her palm-trees ; the chosen and favoured 
land, whose people, severed from all others by the purity and 
devotedness of their faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the 
vengeance of heaven upon the infidel. This triumphant con- 
viction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the 
Battle of Lepanto. 

The impression of deep solemnity lef. upon the mind of the 
Spanish reader, by another of Herrera's lyric compositions 
will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the 
medium of the following translation. 



" Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido," &c 



A VOICE of woe, a murmur of lament, 
A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire ; 
Let such record the day, the day of wail 
For Lusitania's bitter chastening sent ! 
She who hath seen her power, her faine expire, 
And mourns them in the dust, discrown'd and 
pale ! 

And let tJie awful tale 
With grief and horror every realm o'ershade. 

From Afric's burning main 
To the far sea, in other hues array'd, 
And the red liinits of the Orient's reign. 
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold 
Christ's glorious banner to the winds unfold. 

Alas ! for those that in embattled power, 
And vain array of chariots and of horse, 
O desert Libya I sought thy fatal coast ! 
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source 
Of might and glory, but in earthly force, 
Making the strength of multitudes their boast, 

A flush'd and crested Jiost, 
Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trod 
Their path of pride, as o'er a conquer'd land 
Given for the spoil ; nor raised their eyes toGod 
And Israel's Holy One withdrew his hand, 
Their sole support ; — and heavily and prone 
They fell — the car, th,e steed, the rider, all o'er 
thrown ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



46:t 



It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe, 
Wliich to deep solitude imd tears consign'd^ 
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth ; 
A g-loom was on the heavens, no mantling- glow 
Announecd the morn — it seem'd as nature pined, 
And boding clouds obscured tlic sunbeams' birth; 

While, startling the pale earth, 
Burstings upon the mighty and the proud 

With visitation dread. 
Their crests the Eternal in his anger bow'd. 
And raised barbarian nations o'er their head, 
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold. 
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncon- 
troll'd. 

Tlien was the sword let loose, the flaming sword 

Of the strong Infidel's ignoble hand. 

Amidst that host, the pride, the flovi'er, the crnwn 

Of thy fair knighthood ; and the insatiate horde, 

Not with thy life content, O ruin'd land ! 

Sad Lusitania ! even thy bright renown 

Defaced and trampled down ; 
And scatter'd, rushing as a torrent flood, 
Tliy pomp of arms and banners ; — till the sands 
Became a lake of blood ! — thy noblest blood ! 
The plain a mountain of thy slaughter'd bands. 
Strength on thy foes, resistless might, was shed ; 
On thy devoted sons — amaze, and shame, and 
dread. 

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight. 
The warrior men, the invincible, the famed, 
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay. 
Whose spoils were empires ? — They that in their 

might 
The haughty strength of savage nations tamed. 
And gave the spacious orient realms of day 

To desolation's sway. 
Making the cities of imperial name 

Even as the desert place ? 
Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame? 
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race 
In one brief hour ? Is this their valour's doom. 
On distant shores to fall, and find not even a 
tomb ? 

Once were they, in their splendour and their pride, 

As an imperial cedar on the brow 

Of the great Lebanon ! It rose, array'd 

In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide 

Majestic branches, leaving far below 

All children of the forest. To its shade 

The waters tribute paid. 
Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there 
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky. 
And tlie wild mountain-creatures made their lair 
Beneath ; and nations by its canopy 
Were shadow'd o'er. Supreme it stood, and ne'er 
Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair. 

But all elated, on its verdant stem, 
Confiding solely in its regal height. 
It soar'd presumptuous, as for empire born ; 
And Gnd for this removed its diadem, 
And cast it from its reg^ions gf delight, 



Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn. 

By the deep roots uptorn ! 
And lo ! encumbering the lone hills it lay, 
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state. 
While, pale with fear, men liurricd far away 
Who in its ample shade had found so late 
Their bower of rest; and nature's savage race 
'Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place. 

But thou, base Libya, thou whose arid sand 
Hath been a kingdom's death-bed, where one fate 
Closed her bright life, and her majestic fame, 
Tliough to thy feeble and barbarian hand 
Hath fallen the victory, be not thou elate ! 
Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame. 

Unworthy of a name ! 
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance. 
Aroused to vengeance by a nation's cry. 

Pierced by his searching lance. 
Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony. 
And thine afllrightcd streams to ocean's flood 
An ample tribute bear of Afric's Paynim blood 



FRAGMENTS FROM THE 
IPHIGENIA OF GOETHE. 



JOY OF PYLADES ON HEARING HIS NATIVE 

LANGUAGE. 
Oh sweetest voice ! Oh blest familiar sound 
Of mother- words heard in the stranger's land 
I see the blue hills of my native shore. 
The far blue hills again ! those cordial tones 
Before the captive bid them freshly rise 
For ever welcome ! Oh by this deep joy, 
Know the true son of Greece I 



IL 

EXCLAMATION OF IPHIGENIA ON SEEING HER 
BROTHER. 

Oh hear me, look upon me, how my heart 

After long desolation now unfolds 

Unto this new delight, to kiss tliy head. 

Thou dearest, dearest one of all on Earth ! 

To clasp thee with my arms which were but 

thrown 
On the void winds before ! Oh give me way. 
Give my soul's rapture way : — the eternal fount 
Leaps not more brightly forth from cliff" to clifT 
Of high Parnassus, down the golden vale. 
Than the strong jXoy bursts gushing from my 

heart. 
And swells around me to a flood of bliss, 
Orestes ! Oh my Brother ! 



in. 

LOT OF MAN AND WOMAN COMPARED BV 
IPHIGENIA. 
Man by the battle's hour immortalized 
May fill, yet leave his name to living sonjf 



But of forsaken woman's countless tears, 
What recks the after-world ? the poet's voice 
Tells nought of all the slow, sad, weary days 
And long, long nights, through which the lonely 

soul 
Pour'd itself forth, consumed itself away, 
In passionate adjurings, vain desires, 
And ceaseless weepings for the early lost, 
The loved and vanish'd ! 



IV. 

LONGING OP ORESTES FOR REPOSE. 

One draught from Lethe's flood ! reach me one 

draught. 
One last cool goblet fill'd with dewy peace ! 
Soon will the spasm of life departing leave 
My bosom free ! soon shall my spirit flow 
Along the deep waves of forgetfulness. 
Calmly and silently ! away to you 
Ye dead ! ye dwellers of the eternal cloud, 
Take home the son of earth, and let him steep 
His o'erworn senses in your dim repose, 
For evermore. 



Hark ! in the trembling leaves, 
Mysterious whispers: hark ! a rushing sound, 
Sweeps through yon twilight depth ! e'en now 

they come, 
They throng to greet their guest ! and who are 

they ! 
Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, 
As a King's children gathcr'd for' the hour 
Of some high festival ! exultingly, 
And kindred-like and God-like, on they pass. 
The glorious wandering shapes ! aged and young 
Proud men and royal women ! Lo, my race. 
My sire's ancestral race ! 



THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN, 

On Chantrey's Monument in Lichfield Cathedral. 



[The monument by Chantrey in Lichfifild Cathedral, to the 
memory of the two children of Mr?. Robinson, is one of ihe 
most affecting vvorlis of art ever executed. He has eiven a 
Jiiithos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feehntis, 
Qnd admires, anrt is only touched at their bidding, might have 
thought from any previous experience that it was out of the 
CKjwer of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with 
all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children, two 
little girls, are represented as lying in each other's arms, and, 
St first glance, appear to be sleeping ; — 

"But something lies, 
To deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes." 
l* li while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep, that in- 
fancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching inter- 
est, and this and the loveliness of the children, the uncertainty 
of Ihe expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that 
fleep from which they cannot be awakened, their hovering, as 
i; were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recall- 
ed pll conspire to render th'* last feeling, that death is indeed 



before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only childrsn 
of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemora 
tive of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at 
the end of one of the side aisles of Ihe choir, where there is 
nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. 
It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, 
in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief 
words, harmonises with the character of the whole. It is as 
follows : 

Sacred to the Memory 

Of Ellen Jane and Marianne, only children 

Of the late Rev. William Robinson, and Ellen Jane, his wife 

Their affectionate mother. 

In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, 

Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary, 

[n humble gratitude for the glorious assurance. 

That " of such is the Kingdom of God." 

A.N.] 



Fair images of sleep, 

Hallow'd, and soft, and deep. 
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, 

Like moonlight on shut bells 

Of flowers, in mossy dells, 
Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies J 

How many hearts have felt 

Your silent beauty melt 
Their strength to gushing tenderness away ! 

How many sudden tears. 

From depths of buried years 
All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway ! 

How mariy eyes will shed 

Still, o'er your marble bed, 
Such drops from memory's troubled fountains 
wrung, 

While hope hath blights to bear, 

While love breathes mortal air ; 
While roses perish ere to glory sprung, 

Yet from a voiceless home, 

If some sad mother come. 
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest, 

As o'er the cheek's warm glow. 

And tlie sweet breathings low. 
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast ; 

If then the dove-like tone 

Of those faint murmurs gone, 
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return ; 

If for the soft bright hair 

And brow and bosom fair. 
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yeaxn ; 

O gentle forms, entwined 

Like tendrils, which the wind 
May wave, so clasped, but never can unlink ; 

Send from your calm profound 

A still small voice, a sound 
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink ! 

By all the pure meek mind 

In your pale beauty shrined. 
By childhood's love — too bright a bloom L) die. 

O'er her worn spirit shed, 

O fairest, holiest dead ! 
The faith, trust, joy, of immortaliiv ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4&^ 



THE VOICE OF MUSIC. 



; the electric chain wherewith we arc darkly bound. 
Childe Harold. 



Whence is the might of thy mastcr-spell ? 
Speak to nie, voice of sweet sound, and tell ! 
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, 
Passionate visions of love and death ! 

How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh, 
Words and low tones from the days gone by — 
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell ? — 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell ! 

What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring 
In sudden gushes the tears to bring ? 
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee, 
Fountains of sorrow are stirr'd by thee ! 

Vain are those tears ! — vain and fruitless all — 
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall ; 
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, 
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns ! 

Something of mystery there surely dwells. 
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells ; 
Something that finds not its answer here — 
A chain to be clasp'd in another sphere. 

Therefore a current of sadness deep, 

Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to 

sweep, 
Jjikeamoan of the breeze through a summer sky — 
L'ke a name of the dead when tiie wine foams 

high ! 

Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught 
With vain remembrance and troubled thought; — 
Speak ! for thou tellest my soul that its birth 
Links it with regions more bright than earth. 



THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON 



Yes, it is ours ! — the field is won, 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son. 
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield ! 

Let me not hear your trumpets ring. 

Swell not the battle-horn ! 
Thouglits far too sad those notes will bring. 
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne ! 

Speak not of victory ! — in the name 

There is too much of woe ! 
Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame — 
Call me back his whose graceful head is low. 

Speak not of victory ! — from my Iialls 

The sunny hour is gone ! 
The ancient b.-inncr on my walls, 
Miast sink ere long — I liad but hini — but one ] 



Within the dwelling of my sires 
The hearths will soon be cold, 
"With me must die the beacon-fires 
That stream'd at midnight from the mountain 
hold. 

And let them fade, since this must be, 

My lovely and my brave I 
Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me. 
And is there but for stately youth a grave ? 

Speak to me once again, my boy ! 

Wilt thou not hear my call ? 
Thou wert so full of life and joy, 
I had not dreamt of this — that thou couldst fall . 

Thy mother watches from the steep 

For thy returning plume ; 
How shall I tell her that thy sleep 
Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb ? 

Thou didst not seem as one to die, 

With all thy young renown ! 
— Ye saw his falchion's flash on high. 
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests weo 
down ! 

Slow be your march ! the field is won ! 

A dark and evil field ! 
Lift from the ground my noble son, 
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield 



PASSING AWAY. 



"Passing away" is written on the world, and all the wu i 
contains. 



It is written on the rose 

In its glory's full array 
Read what those buds disclose — 
'■'■Passing away." 

It is written on the skies 

Of the sofl blue summer day; 
It is traced in sunset's dyes — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the trees. 

As their young leaves glistening play 
And on brighter thmgs than tiiese — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the brow 

Where the spirit's ardent ra\ 
Lives, burns, and triumphs now — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the heart — 

Alas ! that there decay 
Should claim from love a part — 
" Passing away." 

Friends ! friends ! — oh I shall we juei;' 

In a land of purer day. 
Where lovely things and sweei 
Pass not away 7 



i66 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS, 



Shall we know each other's eyes 

And the thoughts that in them lay 
When we mingled S3'mpathies 
Passing away ? 

Oh ! if this may be so, 

Speed, speed, thou closing day! 
How blest, from earth's vain show 
To pass away ? 



THE WISH 



Come to me, when my soul 
Hath but a few dim hours to linger here ; 

When earthly chains are as a shrivell'd scroll, 
Oh ! let me feel thy presence ! be but near ! 

That I may look once more 
Into thine eyes, which never changed for me ; 

That I may speak to thee of that bright shore 
Where, with our treasure, we have long'd to be. 

Thou friend of many days ! 
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth ! 

Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise 
The trembling pinions of my hope from earth ? 

By every solemn thought 
Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by, 
From the deep voices of tlie mountains caught, 
Oi all til' adoring silence of the sky ; 

By every solemn theme 
vVherein, in low-toned reverence we have spoken, 

By our communion in each fervent dream 
That sought from realms beyond the grave a token; 

And by our tears for those 
Wh:>se loss hath touch'd our world with hues of 
death ; 
And by the hopes that with their dust repose. 
As flowers await the south-wind's vernal breath : 

Come to me in that day — 
The- one — the sever'd from all days — O friend ! 
Even then, if human thought may then have 
sway, 
Mv soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend. 

Nor then, nor there alone : 
[ ask my heart if all indeed must die ; 

All that of holiest feelings it hath known ? 
And my heart's voice replies — Eternity ! 



Yet no ! this mournful love of mine 

I will not from me cast ; 
Let me but dream 'twill win me thine 

By its deep truth at last ! 

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live 
Through years without reply ? 

Oh ! if thy heart thou wilt not give, 
Give me a thought, a sigh ? 



A FRAGMENT. 



SONG FOR AIR BY HUMMEL. 



Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave ! 
Let the pines murmur o'er your grave, 
Your dirge be in the moaning wave ; 
We call you back no more ! 

Oh ! there was mourning when ye fell, 
In your own vales a deep-toned knell, 
As agony — a wild farewell — 

But that hath long been o'er. 

Rest with your still and solemn fame ; 
The hills keep record of your name, 
And never can a touch of shame 
Darken the buried brow. 

But we on changeful days are cast. 
When bright names from their place fall fast- 
And ye, that with your glory past, 

We cannot mourn you now. 



TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER. 



Jh ! if thou wilt not give thine heart. 

Give back my own to me. 
For if in thine I have no part, 

Whv should mine dwell with thee ? 



Thou hast loved and thou hast sufFer'd ! 

Unto feeling deep and strong. 
Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string — 

I know it by thy song ! 

Thou hast loved — it may be vainly — 

But well — oh ! but too well — 
Thou hast sufFer'd all that woman's breast 

May bear — but must not tell. 

Thou hast wept and thou hast parted, 

Thou hast been forsaken long. 
Thou hast wa.tch'd for steps tliat came not back- 

I know it by thy song ! 

By the low clear silvery gushing 

Of its music from thy breast. 
By the quivering like its flute-like swell — 

A sound of the heart's unrest. 

By its fond and plaintive lingering, 

On each word of grief so long. 
Oh ! thou hast loved and sufFer'd much— 

I know it by thy song ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



467 



SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER. 



Pilgrim, O say, hath thy cheek been fann'd 
By the sweet winds of my sunny land ; 
Know'st thou the sound of its mountain pines ? 
And hast tliou rested beneath its vines ? 

Hast thou heard the music still wandering by, 
A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky, 
Floatinor away over hill and heath, 
Witii the myrtle's whisper, the citron's breath ? 

Tiien say, are there fairer vales than those. 
Where the warbling- of fountains for ever flows ? 
Are there brighter flowers than mine own which 

wave 
O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave ? 

O sunshine and song ! they are lying far 
By the streams that look to the western star ; 
My heart is fainting to hear once more 
Tlie water-voices of that sweet shore. 

Many were they that have died for thee. 
And brave, my Spain ! though thou art not free. 
Yet I call them blest — they have rent their chain, 
They sleep in thy valleys — my sunny Spain ! 



NO MORE. 



No more ! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, 

A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell, 
A dying echo of rich music gone. 

Breathe through those words — those murmurs 
of farewell — 

No more ! 

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound. 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

To feel the spirit of her love around. 

And in the blessing of her eye rejoice — 

No more ! 

A dirge-like sound ! to greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend. 
Or join the household laughter by the blaze — 

No more ! 

Tlirough woods that shadow'd our first years to 
rove. 
With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 
And turn, and read our own heart's answer 
there — 

No more ! 

Words of despair ! yet earth's, all earth's — the woe 
Their passion brcatlias — tlie dcsolatnly deep! 

That sound in Heaven — oh ! image then the flow 
Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weep — 

No more ! 



To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane. 
To see the beautiful from life depart, 

To wear impatiently a secret chain. 

To waste the untold riches of the heart — 

No more I 

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to 
yearn 
For human love* — and never quench thai 
thirst, 
To pour the soul out winning no return. 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed — 

No more ! 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, 
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead. 

To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, 
Intensely questioning for treasures fled — 

No more ! 

Words of triumphant music — bear me on 
The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air 

Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, 
To learn in joy ; — to struggle, to despair — 

No more . 



TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 



How is it that before mine eyes, 

While gazing on thy mien, 
All my past years of life arise. 

As in a mirror seen ? 
What spell within thee hath been shrined,- 
To image back my own deep mind ? 

Even as a song of other times. 

Can trouble memory's springs ; 
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes 

Can wake departed things ; 
Even as a scent of vernal flowers 
Hath records fraught with vanish'd hours ; 

Such power is thine ! — they come, the dead, 

From the grave's bondage free. 
And smihng back the changed are led, 

To look in love on thee ; 
And voices that are music flown 
Speak to me in the heart's fuU tone. 

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress. 

The thoughts of happier years. 
And a vain gush of tenderness 

O'erflows in child-like tears ; 
A passion which I may not stay, 
A sudden fount that must have way. 

But thou, the while — oh ! almost strange, 

Mine imaged self! it seems 
That on thy brow of peace no change 

Reflects my own swift dreams ; 
Almost I marvel not to trace 
Those lights and shadows in thy face 

" Jamais, jamais, jenc serai aimc comme j'amie,*- was a 
mournful expresaion of Mad. de Stael's 



468 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



To see thee calm, while powers thus deep, 
Affection — Memory — Grief — 

I'ass o'er my soul as winds that sleep 
O'er a frail aspen-leaf ! 

(>h ! that the quiet of thine eye 

Might sink there when the storm goes by ! 

Yet look thou still serenely on, 
And if sweet friends there be. 

That when my song and soul are gone 
Shall seek my form in thee, 

Tell them of One for whom 'twas best 

To flee away and be at rest ! 



THE BROKEN CHAIN. 



THE ANGLER 



I AM free ! — I have burst through my galling 

chain. 
The life of young eagles is mine again ; 
I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, 
I may rove where the wind roves — my path is 

free ! 

The streams dash in joy down the summer hill. 
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will. 
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze. 
And is not my spirit as one of these ? 

Oh ! the green earth with its wealth of flowers. 
And the voices that ring through its forest bowers. 
And the laughing glance of t!ie founts that shine, 
Lighting the valleys — all, all are mine ! 

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed. 
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed ; 
I may meet the storm in its rushing glee — 
Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free ! 

Captive ! and hast thou then rent thy chain ? 
Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main ? 
Yes ! there thy spirit may proudly soar. 
But nmst thou not mingle with throngs the more ? 

The bird when he pineth, may hush his song. 
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong ; 
But thou, canst thou turn in thy woe aside. 
And weep 'midst thy brethren — no, not for pride. 

May the fiery word fi'om thy lip find way. 
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring 

to day ? 
May tiie care that sits in thy weary breast 
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest? 

No ! with the shafl; in thy bosom borne. 
Thou must hide tkv, wound in thy fear of scorn ; 
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see, 
And mask thee with laughter, and say, thou art 
free: 

No ! thou art chain'd till tliy race is run, 
By the power of all in tlie soul of one ; 
On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be — 
Dreamer fond dreamer ! oh ! who is free ? 



I in these flowery meads would be : 
These crystal streams should solace me; 
To whose harmonious bubblini; noise 
I with my angle would rejoice ; 

* « * * • 

And angle on, and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

Isaac Walton 



Thou that hast loved so long and well 

The vale's deep quiet streams, 
Where the pure water-lilies dwell. 

Shedding forth tender gleams ; 
And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing 
Glances in golden eves of spring. 

Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine, 

Soft, soft; the river flows. 
Wearing the shadow of thy line, 

TJie gloom of alder-boughs ; 
And in the midst, a richer hue. 
One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue. 

And there but low sweet sounds are heard — 

The whisper of the reed, 
The plashing trout, the rustling bird. 

The scythe upon the mead ; 
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near 
There steals a step which mortals fear. 

'Tis not the stag that comes to lave. 

At noon, his panting breast ; 
'Tis not the bittern, by the wave 

Seeking her sedgy nest; 
The air is fill'd with summer's breath. 
The young flowers laugh — yet look! 'tis Death 

But if, where silvery currents rove. 

Thy heart, grown still and sage. 
Hath learn'd to read the words of love 

That shine o'er nature's page ; 
If holy thoughts thy guests have been, 
Under the shade of willows green ; 

Then, lover of the silent hour 

By deep lone waters past. 
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, 

To cheer thee through tlie last ; 
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, 
Mayst calmly bid thy streams farewell. 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS, 
AN ANTiaUE STATUE. 



Thou shouldst be look'd on when the starlight fall^ 
Tlirough the blue stillness of the summer air; 

Not by the torch. fire wavermg on the walls. 
It liath too fitful and too wild a glare ; — 

And tliou — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 

To ask light steps which will not break its dreiins- 



i. 



Flowers arc upon thy brow, for so the dead 
Were crown'd of old, with pulo spring-flowers 
like these ; 
Sleep on, thine eye hath sunk, yet softly shed, 

As I'roin the wing of some faint southern breeze ; 
And the pine-bougiis o'ershadovv thee with gloom 
Which of the grove seems breathing — not the 
tomb, 

Thej' fcar'd not death, whose calm and gracious 
thought 

Of the last hour had settled thus in thee ; 
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, 

And laid thy head upon the forest-tree. 
As that of one, by music's dreamy close 
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose. 

They fear'd not death! Yet who shall say his 
touch 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ? 
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 
Offender beauty as thy features wear. 
Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer lies ? 

Had they seen aught like thee ? Did some fair 
boy 

Thus with his graceful hair before them rest ? 
His graceful hair no more to wave in joy, 

But drooping as with heavy dews opprest, 
And his eyes veil'd so softly by its fringe. 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge? 

Oh, happy if to them the one dread hour. 

Made known its lessons from a brow like thine ! 

If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power, 
Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! 

Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part, . 

Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart ! 

But thou, fair slumberer ! — was there less of woe 
Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 

That men pour'd out their gladdening spirits 
flow. 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold ? 

And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, 

Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we, for loflier faith is ours ; 

Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers ; 

With frasrrant wreaths and summer-boughs ar- 
ray'd 

And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. 

Is it for 7/s a darker gloom to shed 

On its dim precincts ? Do we not entrust 
But for a time its chambers with our dead. 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust? 
Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath. 
When living light hath touch'd the brow of 
Death. 

42 



THE SONG OF PENITENCE. 
UNFINISHED. 



He pass'd from earth 
Without his fame, — the calm, pure, starry fame 
He might have won, to guide on radiantly 
Full many a noble soul, — he sought it not ; 
And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd 
The wayward child of genius. And tlie songs 
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, 
Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves 
Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed 
They died before him ; — they were winged seed, 
Scatter'd afar, and, falling on the rock 
Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone. 
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, 
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast. 
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls 
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love 
Faithful to even its disappointed hope, 
That song of tears found root, and by their hearths 
Full oft in low and reverential tones, 
Fill'd with the piety of tenderness. 
Is murmur'd to their children, when his name 
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, 
Far from the world's rude voices, far away. 
Oh ! hear, and judge him gently : 'twas his last, 

I come alone, and faint I come, 

To nature's arms I flee ; 
The green woods take their wanderer home, 
But thou, O Father ! may I turn to Thee ? 

The earliest odour of the flower. 
The bird's first song is thine: 
Father in Heaven ! my day-spring's hour 
Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine. 

Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene 

Around me faded lies ; 
Therefore, remembering what hath been, 
I ask, is this mine early paradise ? 

It is, it is, — but Thou art gone. 

Or if the trembling shade 
Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone 
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd. 



TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTimV 

A FRAGMENT. 



The moonbeam, quivering o'er the vvave, 
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill. 

The wild wind slumbers in its cave. 
And heaven is cloudless — earth is still ! 

The pile, that crowns yon savage fieight 

With battlements of Gothic might 
Rises in softer pomp arrny'd. 
Its massy towers half lost in shade, 

Half touch'd with mellowing light ' 



The rays of night, the tints of time, 
Soft-ming-ling' on its dark-gray stone, 

O'er its rude strength and mien sublime, 
A placid smile have thrown ; 

And far beyond, where wild and high, 

Bounding the pale blue summer sky, 

A mountain vista meets the eye. 

Its dark, luxuriant woods assume, 

A pencill'd shade, a softer gloom ; 

Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, 

Its torrents glitter through the night. 

While every cave and deep recess. 

Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. 

Scarce moving on the glassy deep. 
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep. 

But, darting from its side. 
How swiftly does its boat design 
A slender, silvery, waving line 

Of radiance o'er the tide ! 
No sound is on the summer-seas, 

But the low dashing of the oar. 
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze 

Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. 
— That boat has reach'd the silent bay, 
The dashing oar has ceased to play, 
The breeze has raurmur'd and has died 
In forest-shades, on ocean's tide. 
No step, no tone, no breath of sound 
Disturbs the loneliness profound. 
And midnight spreads o'er earth and main 

A calm so holy and so deep, 
That voice of mortal were profane. 

To break on nature's sleep ! 
It is the hour for thought to soar. 

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes ; 
For rapt devotion to adore. 

For passion to repose ; 
And virtue to forget her tears. 
In visions of sublimer spheres ! 
Foi- oh ! those transient gleams of heaven, 
To calmer, purer spirits given. 
Children of hallow'd peace, are knowna 
In solitude and shade alone ! 
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, 
To blow beneath the midnight moon, 
The garish world they will not bless, 
But only hve in loneliness ! 

Hark ! did some note of plaintive swell 

Melt on the stillness of the air ? 
Or was it fancy's powerful spell 

That woke such sweetness there ? 
ha, wild and distant it arose. 
Like sounds that bless the bard's repose, 
When in lone wood, or mossy cave 
He dreams beside some fountain- wave. 
And fairy worlds delight the eyes. 
Wearied with life's realities. 

Was it illusion ? — yet again 
Rises and falls th' enchanted strain, 

Mellow, and sweet, and faint. 
As if some spirit's touch had given 
The soul of sound to harp of Heaven 

To soothe a d ying saint ? 



Is it the mermaid's distant shell, 

Warbling beneath the moonlight wave ? 
— Such witching tones might lure full well 

The seaman to liis grave ! 
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise. 
Wild, soft, aerial melodies ! 
— Is it the song of woodland-fay 

From sparry grot, or haunted bower ? 
Hark ! floating on, the magic lay 

Draws near yon ivied tower ! 
Now nearer still, the listening ear 
May catch sweet harp-notes, faint, yet deal 
And accents low, as if in fear 

Thus murmur, half-suppress'd : 
" Awake ! the moon is bright on high, 
The sea is calm the bark is nigh. 

The world is hush'd to rest !" 
Then sinks the voice — the strain is o'er, 
Its last low cadence dies along the shore. 

Fair Bertha hears th' expected song, 
Swift from her tower she glides along ; 
No eclio to her tread awakes. 
Her fairy step no slumber breaks. 
And in that hour of silence deep. 
While all around the dews of sleep 
O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep. 
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear. 
Her dark eye glistens with a tear. 
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek 
And sudden pause, her doubts bespeak. 
The lip now flush'd, now pale as death. 
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath . 
Oh ! in that moment, o'er her soul. 
What struggling passions claim control i 
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high. 
By turns have won th' ascendancy ; 
And as, all tremulously bright, 
Streams o'er her face the beam of night, 
\^iat thousand mix'd emotions play 
O'er that fair face, and melt away : 
Like forms whose quick succession gleams 
O'er fancy's rainbow — tinted dreams ; 
Like the swift glancing lights that rise 
'Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, 

And traverse ocean o'er ; 
So in that full, impassioned eye 
The changeful meanings rise and die. 

Just seen — and then no more ! 
But oh ! too short that pause — again. 
Thrills to her heart that witcliing strain, 
" Awake ! the midnight moon is bright, 
Awake ! the moments wing their flight, 

Haste ! or they speed in vain !" 
Oh ! call of love ! thy potent spell. 
O'er that weak heart prevails too well, 
The " still small voice" is heard no mor* 
That pleaded duty's cause before. 
And fear is hush'd, and doubt is gone, 
And pride forgot, and reason flown ! 
Her cheek, whose colour came and fled 
Resumes its warmest, brightest red. 
Her step its quick, elastic tread. 

Her eye its beaming smile ! 
Through lonely court and silent hall. 
Flits her light shadow o'er the wall, 



And still that low, harmonious call 

Melts on her ear tlie while ! 
Thong^h love's quick car alone could tell 
Tlio words its accents faintly swell, 
" Awake, while yet the lingering night 
And stars and seas befriend our flight, 

Oh ! haste, while all is well !" 
The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, 
She gains the moonlight beach at last. 
Who waits to guide her trembling feet ? 
Who flies tJie fugitive to greet ? 
He, to her 3'outhtul heart endear'd 
By all it e'er had hoped and fear'd. 
Twined with each wish, with every thought. 
Each day-dream fancy e'er had wrought, 
Wliose tints pourtray, with flattering skill. 
What brighter worlds alone fulfil ! 
— Alas ! that aught so fair should fly, 
riiy blighting wand. Reality ! 

A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore, 
A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore. 
Disguise that vainly strove to hide 
Bearing and glance of martial pride ; 
For he in many a battle scene. 
On many a rampart-breach had been ; 
Had sternly smiled at danger nigh. 
Had seen the valiant bleed and die. 
And proudly rear'd on hostile tower, 
'Midst falchion-clash, and arrowy shower, 

Britannia's banner high ! 
And though some ancient feud had taught 

His Bertha's sire to loathe his name. 
More noble warrior never fought, 

For glory's prize, or England's fame. 
And well his dark, commanding eye. 

And form and step of stately grace. 
Accorded witi: achievements high, 
Soul of emprize and chivalry. 

Bright name, and generous race ! 
His cheek, embrown'd by many a sun, 
Tells a proud tale of glory won. 
Of vigil, march, and combat rude. 
Valour, and toil, and fortitude ! 
E'en while youth's earliest blushes threw 
Warm o'er that cheek, their vivid hue. 
His gallant soul, his stripling-form. 
Had braved the battle's rudest storm ; 
Wlien England's conquering archers stood. 
And dyed thy plain, Poitiers, with blood. 
When shiver'd axe, and cloven shield. 
And shatter'd helmet, strew'd the field. 
And France aroimd her King in vain. 
Had marshall'd valour's noblest train; 
In that dread strife, his lightning eye. 
Had flash'd with transport keen and high. 
And 'mid«;t the battle's wildest tide, 
Throbb'd liis young heart with hope and pride. 
Alike tliat fearless heart could brave, 
Death on the war-field or the wave ; 
Alike in tournament or fight. 
That ardent spirit found delight! 
Yet oft, 'midst hostile scenes afar, 

Briglit o'er his soul a vision came. 
Rising, like some benignant star, 
On stormy seas, or plains of war. 



To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, 
The heart that throbb'd to Bertha's name ' 
And 'midst tiie wildest rage of fight, 
And in tlie deepest calm of night, 
To her Jiis thoughts would wing their flight 
With fond devotion warm ; 
Oft would those glowing thoughts pourtray 
Some liome, fi-om tumults far away. 

Graced with that angel form ! 
And now his spirit fondly deems 
Fulfill'd its loveliest, dearest dreams ! 

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, 

In minstrel garb attends the chief? 
The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow 

Reveals a shade of grief 
Sorrow and time have touch'd his face, 
With mournflil yet majestic grace, 
Soft as the melancholy smile 
Of sunset on some ruin'd pile ! 
— It is the bard, whose song had power, 
To lure the maiden from her tower ; 
The bard whose wild, inspiring lays, 
E'en in gay ehildliood's earliest days, 
First woke in Osbert's kindling breast, 
The flame that will not be repre&t. 
The pulse that throbs for praise ! 
Those lays had banish'd from his eye, 
The bright, soft tears of infancy. 
Had soothed the boy to calm repose. 
Had hush'd his bosom's earliest woes 
And when the light of thought awoke, 
When first young reason's day-spring broke, 
More powerful still, they bade arise, 
His spirit's burning energies ! 
Then the bright dream of glory warm'd, 
Then the loud pealing war-song charm'd, 
The legends of each martial line. 
The battle-tales of Palestine ; 
And oft, since then, his deeds had proved, 
Themes of the lofty lays he loved ! 
Now, at triumphant love's command. 
Since Osbert leaves his native land. 
Forsaking glory's high career, 
For her, than glory far more dear. 
Since hope's gay dream, and meteor ray. 
To distant regions points his way. 
That there affection's hands may dress, 
A fairy bower for happiness ; 
That fond devoted bard, though now. 
Time's wint'ry garland wreathes his brow 
Though quench'd the sunbeam of his eye, 
And fled his spirit's buoyancy ; 
And strength and enterprise are past. 
Still follows, constant to the last I 

Though his sole wish was but to die 
'Midst the calm scenes of days gone by. 
And all that hallows and endears 
The memory of departed years. 
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined 
To those loved scenes, his pensive mind. 
Ah ! what can tear the links apart. 
That bind liis cliicftain to his h^arf 
What smile but his witli joy can lighl 
The eye obscured by age's night ? 



472 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Lafst of a loved and honour'd line, 
Last tie to eartli in life's decline, 
Till death its ling-ering spark shall dim, 
That faithful eye musi gaze on him ! 

Silent and swift, with footstep light, 
Haste on those fugitives of night. 
They reach'd tiie boat — the rapid oar. 
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore ; 
The bark is gaiu'd — a gallant few. 
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew ; 
The pennant, in the moonlight beam, 

With soft suffusion glows ; 
From the white sail, a silvery gleam 

Falls on the wave's repose ; 
Long shadows undulating play. 
From mast and streamer, o'er the bay ; 
But still so hush'd the summer air. 
They tremble, 'midst that scene so fair, 
Lest morn's first beam behold them there. 
— Wake, viewless wanderer ! breeze of night; 
From river-wave, or mountain-lieight, 
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers. 
By haunted spring, in forest bowers ; 
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell. 
In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, 
And cavern'd gems their lustre throw, 
O'er the red sea-flowers' vivid glow ? 
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze. 
In solitary splendour blaze ; 
And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear, 
Swell through the deep's unfathom'd sphere ? 
What grove of that mysterious world, 
Holds thy light wing, in slumber furl'd ? 
Awake ! o'er glittering seas to rove, 
Av/ake ! to guide the bark of love ! 

Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon 
Shall fade the bright propitious moon ; 
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, 
E'en now — but lo ! the rustling sail 
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale ! 
The bark glides on — their fears are o'er, 
Recedes the bold, romantic shore. 

Its features mingling fast ; 
Gaze, Bertha, gaze, thy lingering eye 
May still each lovely scene descry 

Of years for ever past ! 
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade, 
With bounding step, thy childhood play'd ; 
'Midst ferny glades, and mossy lawns. 
Free as their native birds and fawns ; 
Listening the sylvan sounds, that float 
On each low breeze, 'midst dells remote ; 
I'he ring-dove's deep, melodious moan. 
The rustling deer in thickets lone ; 
Tlie wild bee's hum, the aspen's sigh, 
The wood-stream's plaintive harmony. 
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, 
There thy own mountains darkly tower ! 
'Midst tlieir gray rocks no glen so rude, 
But tliou hast loved its solitude ! 
No path so wild but thou hast known, 
And traced its rugged course alone ! 
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair. 
Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. 



There, in the day-spring of thy years, 

Undimm'd by passions or by tears, 

Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye 

Wander'd o'er ocean, earth, and sky. 

While the wild breeze that round thee ble<v% 

Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue ; 

Pure as the skies that o'er thy head 

Their clear and cloudless azure spread ; 

Pure as that gale, whose light wing drew 

Its freshness from the mountain dew ; 

Glow'd tiiy young heart with feelings high, 

A Heaven of hallow'd ecstacy ! 

Such days were thine 1 ere love had drawn 

A cloud o'er that celestial dawn ! 

As the clear dews in morning's beam, 

With soft reflected colouring stream. 

Catch every tint of eastern gem. 

To form the rose's diadem ; 

But vanish, when the noontide hour. 

Glows fiercely on tlie shrinking flower; 

Thus in thy soul each calm delight, 

Like morn's first dew-drops, pure and bright, 

Fled swift from passion's blighting fire, 

Or linger'd only to expire ! 

Spring on thy native hills agam. 

Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise. 
And call forth, in each grassy glen. 

Her brightest emerald dyes ! 
There shall the lonely mountain rose, 
Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose ; 
'Midst rocky dells, each well-known streamj 
Shall sparkle in the summer beam ; 
The birch, o'er precipice and cave. 
Its feathery foliage still shall wave ; 
The ash 'midst rugged clefts unveil 
Its coral clusters to the gale. 
And autumn shed a warmer bloom 
O'er the rich heath and glowing broom. 
But thy light footstep there no more. 
Each path, each dingle shall explore ; 
In vain may smile each green recess, 
— Who now shall pierce its loneliness ? 
The stream through shadowy glens may stray, 
— Who now shall trace its glistening way ? 
In solitude, in silence deep. 
Shrined 'midst her rocks, shall echo sleep, 
No lute's wild swell again shall rise. 
To wake her mystic melodies. 
All soft may blow the mountain air, 
— It will not wave thy graceful hair ! 
The mountain-rose may bloom and die, 
— It will not meet thy smiling eye ! 
But like those scenes of vanish'd days, 

Shall others ne'er delight ; 
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy ga/e, 

Yet seem not half so bright I 
O'er the dim woodlands' fading hue. 

Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high ; 
Gaze on, while yet 't is thine to view 

That home of infancy ! 
Heed not tlie night-dew's chilling power, 
Heed not the sea-wind's coldest hour. 
But pause, and linger on the deck. 
Till of those towers no trace, no speck, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



473 



Is gleaming' o'er the main ; 
For wlicn the mist of morn sliall rise, 
IJlonding the sea, the shore, the skies, 
riiat home, once vanish'd Irom thine eyes, 

Siiall bless them ne'er again ! 
There the dark tales and songs of yore, 

P'irst with strange transport thrili'd thy soul, 
E'en while their tearful, mystic lore. 

From thy warm cheek tlie life-bloom stole ; 
There, while thy father's raptured ear 
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, 
And in his eye the trembling tear 

Revcal'd his spirit's trance ; 
How oft, these echoing halls along, 
Thy thrilling voice lias swell'd the song, 
Tradition wild of other days, 
Or troubadour's heroic lays 

Or legend of romance ! 
Oh ! many an hour has there been thine, 

That memory's pencil oft shall dress 
In softer shades, and tints that shine 

In mellow'd loveliness ! 
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, 

Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, 
The sunshine of thine early years. 

Scarce deem'd so radiant — till it set ! 
The cloudless peace unprized, till gone. 
The bhss, till vanish'd, hardly known ! 

On rock and turret, wood and hill, 

The fading moonbeams linger still ; 

Still, Bertha, gaze ! — On yon gray tower. 

At evening's last and sweetest hour, 

\^'hile varying still, the western skies 

Flush'd the clear seas with rainbow-dyes, 

^Vhose warm suffusions glow'd and pass'd, 

Each richer, lovelier, than the last; 

How oft, while gazing on the deep. 

That seem'd a heaven of peace to sleep. 

As if its wave, so still, so fair. 

More frowning mien might never wear, 

The twiliglit calm of mental rest 

Would steal in silence o'er thy breast. 

And wake that dear and balmy sigh, 

That sotlly breathes the spirit's harmony ! 

— All ! ne'er again shall hours to thee be given, 

Of joy on earth — so near allied to Heaven ! 

Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye ? 
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh ? 
Is there a grief his voice, his smile. 
His words, are fruitless to beguile ? 
— Oil ! bitter to the youthful heart, 

That sidrce a pang, a care has known, 
The liour when first from scenes we part, 

Where life's bright spring has flown ! 
Forsaking, o'er the world to roam. 
That little shrine of peace — our home ! 
E'en if delighted fancy throw 
O'er that cold world, her brightest glow. 
Painting its untried paths with flowers. 
That will not live in earthly bowers; 
(Too frail, too fix(]uisite, to bear 
One breath of life's ungcnial air;) 
E'en if such dreams of hope arise, 
Ajs Heaven alone can realize ; 
2G 42* 



Cold were tlie breast that would not heave 
One sigh, the home of youth to leave ; 
Stern were the heart that would not swell 
To breathe life's saddest word — farewell ! 
Though earth has many a deeper woe. 
Though tears, more bitter far, must flow. 
That hour, whate'cr our future lot, 
That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot ! 

Such was the pang of Bertha's heart, 
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start , 

And Osbert, by her side. 
Heard the deep sigh whose bursting swell, 
Nature's fond struggle told too well. 
And days of future bliss pourtray'd 
And love's own eloquence essay'd. 

To soothe his plighted bride ! 
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells. 

In that sweet land to which they fly ; 
The vine-clad rocks, the fragment dells 

Of blooming Italy. 
For he had roved a pilgrim there. 
And gazed on many a spot so fair, 
It seem'd like some enchanted grove. 
Where only peace, and joy, and love, 
Those exiles of the world, might rove. 

And breathe its heavenly air ; 
And all unmix'd with ruder tone. 
Their " wood-notes wild " be heard alone ! 

Far from the frown of stern control. 
That vainly would subdue the soul. 
There shall their long-affianced hands 
Be join'd in consecrated bands, 
And in some rich, romantic vale, 

Circled with heights of Alpine snow, 
Where citron-woods enrich tJie gale, 
And scented shrubs their balm exhale, 

And flowering mj^rtles blow ; 
And 'midst the mulberry boughs on high. 
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry : 
On some bright streamlet's emerald side, 
Where cedars wave, in graceful pride, 
Bosom'd in groves, their home shall rise, 
A shelter'd bower of Paradise ! 

Thus would the lover soothe to rest, 
AVith tales of hope, her anxious breast; 
Nor vain that dear, enchanting lore. 
Her soul's bright visions to restore. 
And bid gay phantoms of delight. 
Float, in soft colouring, o'er her sight. 
— Oh ! youth, svi^eet May-morn fled so soon, 
Far brighter than life's loveliest noon 
How oft thy spirit's buoyant power. 
Will triumpli, e'en in sorrow's hour. 

Prevailing o'er regret! 
As rears its head tli' elastic flower, 
Tliough the dark tempest's recent shuWJi 

Hang on its petals yet ! 

Ah ! not so soon can hope's gay smile 

The aged bard to joy beguile ; 

Those silent years that steal away. 

The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright r&<i 

Win from the mind a nobler prize 

E'en all its buoyant energies ! 



For him the April days are past, 
When grief was but a flceling cloud • 
No transient shade will sorrow cast, 
When age the spirit's might has bow'd ! 
And as he sees the land grow dim. 
That native land, now lost to him, 
Fix'd are his eyes, and elasp'd his hands, 
And long in speechless grief he stands. 
So desolately calm his air, 
He seems an image, wrought to bear 
The stamp of deep, though hush'd despair ; 
Motion and life no sign bespeaks 
Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks, 

Just waves his silvery hair ! 
Nought else could teach the eye to know 
He was no sculptured form of woe ! 

Long gazing o'er the dark'ning flood, 
Pale in that silent grief he stood ; 
Till the cold moon was waning fast, 

And many a lovely star had died. 
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast 

Far o'er the slumbering tide ; 
And robed in one dark solemn hue, 
Arose the distant shore to view. 
Then starting from his trance of woe. 
Tears, long suppre^s'd in freedom flow, 
While thus his wild and plaintive strain, 
Blends with the murmur of the main. 

THE BARD'S FAREWELL. 
Thou setting moon ! when next thy rays 

Are trembling on the shadowy deep, 
The land, now fading from my gaze 

These eyes in vain shall weep ; 
And v/ander o'er the lonely sea, 
And fix their tearful glance on thee. 
On thee ! whose light so softly gleams. 
Thro' the green oaks that fringe my native streams. 

But 'midst those ancient groves no more 
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail. 

Its plaintive strain my harp must pour, 
To swell a foreign gale ; 

The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke, 

When its full tones their stillness broke, 

Deserted now, shall hear alone, 
The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan. 

And oh ! ye fair, forsaken halls. 

Left by your lord to slow decay. 
Soon shall the trophies on your walls 

Be mouldering fast away ! 
There shall no choral songs resound, 
There shall no festal board be crown'd ; 
But ivy wreath the silent gate. 
And all be hush'd, and cold, and desolate. 

Wo banner from the stately tower. 

Shall spread its blazon'd folds on high, 

There the wild briar and summer-flower 
Unmark'd shall vi^ave and die ! 

Home of the mighty ! thou art lone, 

Tlif; noonday of thy pride is gone. 

And 'midst thy solitude profoun-l, 
A stf p '(hail echo like unearthly sound ! 



From thy cold hearths no festal blaze 
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, 
Noi welcome, with convivial rays. 

Some pilgrim of the night ; 
But there shall grass luxuriant spread, 
As o'er the dwellings of the dead; 
And the deep swell of every blast. 
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past. 

And I — my joy of life is fled, 

My spirit's power, my bosom's glow. 
The raven locks that graced my head. 

Wave in a wreath of snow ! 
And where the star of youth arose, 
I deem'd life's lingering ray should close. 
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade. 
Beneath whose arching bowers my childbooa 
play'd. 

Vain dream ! that tomb in distant earth 

Shall rise forsaken and forgot. 
And thou, sweet land, that gav'st me birth, 

A grave must yield me not ! 
Yet haply he for whom I leave 
Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve. 
When cold the hand, and closed the lays, 
And mute the voice he loved to praise. 
O'er the hush'd harp one tear may shed. 
And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed ! 



TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS. 



-How divine 



The liberty, for frail, for mortal man. 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
And mounlainoua retirementg, only trod 
By devious footsteps ! — Refiions consecrate 
To oldest time! — And reckless of tliestorra 
That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion — One 
Among the many there. 

Wordsworth. 



MoaNTAiN winds ! oh ! whither do ye call me ? 

Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue ! 
Chains of care to lower earth enthral me. 

Wherefore tlius my weary spirit woo ? 

Oh ! the strife of tliis divided being ! 

Is there peace where ye are borne on high ? 
Could we soar to your proud eyeries fleeing. 

In our hearts would haunting memories die? 

Those wild places are not as a dwelling 

Whence the footsteps of the loved ai-fs gone! 

Never from those rocky halls came swelling' 
Voice of kindness in familiar tone ! 

Surely music of oblivion sweepeth 

In the pathway of your wanderings free ; 

And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth, 
Sings of no lost home amidst its g^ee. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



415 



There the rushing^ of tlie falcon's pinion, 
Is not from some hidden pang to fly ; 

All things breathe of power and stern dominion — 
Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die. 

Mountain winds ! oh ! is it, is it only 
Where man's trace liatli been that so we pine? 

Bear me up, to grow in tiiought less lonely. 
Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrine ! 

Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers ! 

At wliose tone my heart within me burns ; 
Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers, 

Where the waters have their secret urns ! 

There to commune with a loftier spirit 
Than the troubling shadows of regret; 

There the wings of freedom to inherit. 

Where the enduring and the wing'd a r met. 

Mush, proud voices ! gentle be your falling ! 

Woman's lot thus chainless may not be ; 
flush ! the heart your trumpet sounds are calling, 

Darkly still may grow — but never free ! 



WELSH MELODIES. 



DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF 
THE ROMANS 



By the dread and viewless powers. 

Whom the storms and seas obey. 
From tlie Dark Isle's* mystic bowers, 

Romans ! o'er the deep away ! 
Think ye, 'tis but nature's gloom 

O'er our shadowy coast which broods ? 
By tlie altar and the tomb. 

Shun these haunted solitudes ! 
Know ye Mona's awful spells ? 

She the rolling orbs can stay ! 
She the miglity grave compels 

Back to yield its fettcr'd prey ! 
Fear ye not llie lig'itning-stroke ? 

Mark ye not the fiery sky ? 
Hence I — around our central oak 

Gods are gathering — Romans, fly ! 



THE SEA-SONG OF GAVRAN.t 



Watch ye well ! The moon is slirouded 

On her briglit throne; 
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, 

Waves make wild moan. 



* Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island, an ancient name for 
Anglesey. 

t Gavran was aT^rilish Chief, who in the fifth century untler- 
tok a voyace to discover Iho islands which, by tradition, were 
known under the appellation of Gwerddonaii Llion, or Orecn 
Isl;mds of the Oceun. This expediiion was never aftcrwaids 
Beard of. — See Cambrian BionravliV, p. 124. 



'Tis 10 night of hearth-fires glowing, 
And gay songs and wine-cups flowing • 
But of winds, in darkness blowing 
O'er seas unknown ! 

In the dwellings of our fathers, 

Round tlie glad blaze. 
Now the festive circle gathers. 

With harps and lays ; 
Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing 
Steps are bounding, bards are singing, 
— Ay ! the hour to all is bringing 

Peace, joy, or praise ! 

Save to us, our night-watch keeping, 

Storm-winds to brave. 
While the very sea-bird sleeping, 

Rests in its cave ! 
Think of us when hearths are beaming, 
Think of us when mead is streaming. 
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming, 

On the dark wave ! 



THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN. 



The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, t 
I weep, for the grave has extinguisji'd its hglit; 
The beam of its lamp from the summit is o'er. 
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome na 
more ! 

The Hull of Cynddylan is voiceless and still. 
The sound of its harpings liath died on the hill ! 
Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, 
Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare. 
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there ! , 

Oh ! where are the warriors who circled its board ? 
— The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup 
was pour'd I 

The hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night. 
Since He is departed whose siriile made it bright' 
I mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief. 
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief! 



t "The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this nigh,. 
Wiihoutfire, without bed — 
I must weep awhile, and then be silent. 

The Ilall ofCynddylan is gloomy this night 
Without fire, without be.ing lighted — 
Be thou encircled witii spreadins silence! 



The Hall ofCynddylan is without 't"'« this night. 

Since he that owned it i.-; no more— 

Ah, Death ! it will be but a short time he will leave liia 

The TIall ofCynddylan it is not easy this night 
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth, 
Without its lord, without company, without the circhng 
feasts :" 

Sec Owen's " Heroic Etcpies of Lljiwarch Hen 



THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN. 



Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard 
bnd chief, of the limes of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, sup- 
posed 10 bo a part of the present Cumberland. Having sus- 
tained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most 
of liis sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North 
Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch 
was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. 
He there found an asylum for some time in the residence of 
Cynddylan, PrinceofPowys, whose fall he pathetically lamenis 
in one of his poems. These are still extant, and his elepy on 
old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity 
and beauty. — See Cambrian Biographij, a?id Owen's Heroic 
Elegies and other poems of Llyicarch Hen. 



The brig'ht hours return, and the blue sky is 

ringing 
With song, and the hills are all mantled with 

bloom ; 
But fairer than aught which the summer is bring- 

The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb ! 
Oh ! why should I live to hear music resounding. 
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave ? 
Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps 

surrounding? 
— My sons ! they but clothe the green turf of your 

grave ! 

Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, 
My spirit all wrapt in the past, as a dream ! 
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,* 
Pvline eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam. 
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping ! 
— Oh Grave ! why refuse to the aged thy bed, 
When valour's high heart on thy bosom is sleep- 
ing", 
When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the 
dead ! 

Fair were ye, my sons ! and all kingly your bear- 

As on to the fields of your glory ye trod ! 

Each prince of my race the bright golden chain 

wearing. 
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the 

sod !t 
Y weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, 
Whicli rouses ye not ! Oh, my lovely ! my brave ! 
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds 

are boimding, 
I turn from Heaven's light, for it smiles on your 

grave ! X 



• "WhatI loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now. 
* * * * * * * 

\ "Four and twenty sons to me have been, 
Wjaring the golden chain, and leading princes." 

Elegies ofLli/wiirch Hen. 
The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is 
Iriiiucntly alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards. 
t ' Hardly has the snow covered the vale 
When toe warriors are hastening to the battle ; 
«<f not go, I am hmdered by infirmity." 

OwcrCs Elegies of JJt/vw.rch Hen. 



GRUFYDD'S FEAST. 



Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the Enc'^'-li 
successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from 
them an honourable peace, made a great feast at his palace iu 
Ystrad Tywi, to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was 
continued for forty days, he invited all who would come in peaco 
from Gioynedd, Powys, the Deheubarth, Glamorgan, and tho 
marches. -Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of 
delicious viands and liquors ; with every entertainment of vocal 
and instrumental song; thus patronising the poets and musi- 
cians. Heencouraged, too, all sorts of representations and man 
ly games, and afterwards sent aw.ay all those who had excellea 
in them, with honourable gifts. — Vide Cambrian Biography. 



Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the 

brave. 
By the bright festal torches around us that wave ! 
Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall. 
And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the 

wall ! 
There is peace on the land we have battled to 

save. 
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam 

high,§ 
That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die 

Let the horn, whose loud blast gave the signal for 

fight, 
With the bee's sunny nectar now sparkle in 

light,|l 
sLet the rich draught it offers with gladness be 

crown'd. 
For the strong hearts, in combat that leap'd at its 

sound ! 
Like tiie billow's dark swell, was the path of 

tlieir might. 
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high 
That those may rejoice who have fear'd not tc 

die! 



And wake ye the children of song from theii 

dreams. 
On Maelor's wild hills, and by Dyfed's fail 

streams It 
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty am 

free. 
Which shall float down tlie waves of long agef 

to be. 
Sheath the sword which hath given them un 

perishing themes. 
And pour the bright mead, let the wine-cup-foam 

high. 
That those may rejoice who have fear'd not tc 

die! 



5 Wine, as well as m.ead, is frequently mentioned in the 
poems of the ancient British bards. 

II The horn was used for two purposes, to sound the alarrn 
in war, and to drink the mead at feasts. 

II Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint. Dyfed, 
(said to signify a land abounding with streams it water,) the 
modern Pembrokeshire. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



477 



THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA. 



WitEN tlic last flusli of eve is dyinsf 

On boundless lakes, afar that shine ; 
Wlien winds amidst Ihe palms are sighing-, 

And fragrance breathes from every pine :* 
When stars tlirough cypress boughs are gleaming. 

And fire-flies wander bright and free. 
Still of tliy harps, thy mountains dreaming. 

My tlioughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee 

Alone o'er green savannas rovmg. 

When some broad stream in silence flows, 
Or through th' eternal forests moving. 

One only home my spirit knows ! 
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted ! 

To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; 
But happier, could the weary-hearted. 

Look on his own blue hills, and die ! 



THE MONARCHY OF BRITAIN. 



The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh Princes, 
always accompanied Ihe army when it marched into an ene- 
my's country, and while it was preparing for battle, or divid- 
ing ihe spoils,' he performed an ancient song, called Unbcn- 
nncth Prydain, the monarchy of Britain. It has been con- 
jeclured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, 
that ihe whole Island had once been possessed by tjinir an- 
cestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon 
invaders. When ihe prince had received his share of the 
sp'iils, the bard, for the perfirmance of this song, was re- 
warded with the most valuable beast that remained. — See 
Jones's Historical Account of the Welsh Bards. 



So\s of the Fair Isle 1 1 forget not the time, 
Ere spoilers had breath'd the free winds of your 

clime ! 
All that its eagles behold in their flight, 
Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled 

height ! 
Tho' from your race that proud birth-right be 

torn, 
Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born. 
Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, 
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle ! 

Ages may roll, ere your children regain 
Tiic land for which heroes have pcrish'd in vain. 
Yet in the sound of your name shall be power. 
Around her still gathering, till glory's full liour. 
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep. 
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep ! 
Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile. 
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle ! 



TALIESINS PROPHECY. 



* The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been men- 
tioned by Iravollers. 

T Ynys Pridain, the ancient name of Britain, signifies tho 
Fair, or Beautiful Island. 



A prophecy of Talicsin relating to the Ancient Britons, ii 
still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the fol 
lowing clfect: 

"Their God Ihey shall worship. 
Their language they shall retain. 
Their land they shall lose, 
Except wild Wales." 



A VOICE from time departed, yet floats thy hills 

among, 
O Cambria ! thus thy prophet bard, thy Talicsin 

sung ! 
The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul, 
The clouds, which mantle things unseen, away 

before me roll, 
A light, the depths revealing, hath o'er my spirit 

pass'd, 
A rushing sound from days to be, swells fitful in 

the blast, 
And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty 

tongue. 
To which the harp of Mona's woods by Free- 
dom's hand was strung. 



Green island of the mighty !* I see thine ancient 

race 
Driven from their father's realm, to make the 

rocks their dwelling-place ! 
I see from Uthyr'st kingdom the sceptre pas* 

away. 
And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely 

men decay. 
But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their 

sovereign forms. 
And wear the crown to which is given dominion 

o'er the storms. 
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty 

tongue, 
To whiwh the harp of Mona's woods by Free- 
dom's hand was strung ! 



PRINCE MADOC'S FAREWELL. 



Why lingers my gaze where the last hnes of day. 
On the hills of my country in loveliiu'Si^ sleep ? 

Too fair is the sight for a wanderer, whose way 
Lies far o'er the measureless worlds of 1 he deep ! 

Fall, shadows of tvviliglit ! and veil tiio green 
shore. 

That the heart of the mighty may waver no more I 



* Ynys V Cedcirn, or Isle of Ihe Mighty, an annii iit name 
given to Britain. 

t Uihyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposeu 'o h." se In-iio 
the father of Arthur. 



=41 



178 



MRS. KEMANS' WORKS. 



Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the 
land, 
Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind 
is borne ? 
Be hush'd, be forgotten ! for ne'er shall the liand 

Of minstrel with melody greet my return. 
'—No ! no I — let your echoes still float on the 

breeze. 
And my heart shall be strong for tlie conquest of 
seas ! 

'T is not for the land of my sires to give birth 
Unto bosoms that shrink, when their trial is 
nigh ; _ 
Away ! we will bear over ocean and earth 
A name and a spirit that never sliall die. 
My course to the winds, to the stars I resign. 
But my soul's quenchless fire, oh ! my country ! 
is thine. 



CASWALLON'S TRIUMPH. 



Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme 
command of the Britons, (aa recorded in the Triads,) Tor the 
I'lurpose of opposing Ca;sar, under the title of Elected Chief 
i)f Batlle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of 
Home might have made on the Britains in the first instance, 
the subsequent departure of Ca;sar they considered as a cause 
of triumph ; and it is staled that Caswallon proclaimed an 
Msemhly of the various states of the island, for the purpose 
of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing. — 
See the Cambrian Biography. 



From the glowing southern regions, 

Where the sun-god makes his dwelling. 
Came the Roman's crested legions, 

O'er the deep, round Britain swelling; 
The wave grew dazzling as he pass'd. 
With light, from spear and iielmet casrt. 
And sounds in every rushing blast 
Of a conqueror's march were telling • 

But his eagle's royal pinion, 
Bowing earth beneath its glory, 

Could not shadow with doininion 

Our wild seas and mountains hoary ! 

Eack from their cloudy realm it flies, 

To float in light through softer skies ; 

Oh ! chainless winds of Heaven, arise ! 
Bear a vanquish'd world the story ! 

Lords of earth ! to Rome returning, 
Tell, how Britain combat wages, 

How Caswallon's soul is burning 
When the storm of battle rages ! 

And ye that shrine high deeds in song, 

(>h . holy and immortal throng ! 

The brightness of his name prolong, 
As a torch to stream through ages ! 



HOWELL'S SONG. 



Howel ab Einion Lt/gliw was a distinguished bard of *hq 
l-1th century. A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy 
Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, is still preserved 
amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of My- 
fanwy's residence, Caslle Dinas Bran, may yet be traced on a 
high hill near Llangollen. 

Press on, my steed ! I hear the swell * 
Of Valle Crucis' vesper-bell. 
Sweet floating from the holy dell 

O'er woods and waters round. 
Perchance the maid I love, e'en now, 
From Dinas Bran's majestic brow, 
Looks o'er the fairy world below, 

And listens to the sound ! 

I feel her presence on the scene .' 
The summer-air is more serene. 
The deep woods wave in riciier green. 

The wave more gently flows ! 
Oh ! fair as Ocean's curling foam !"j" 
Lo ! with the balmy hour I come. 
The houi that brings the wanderer home. 

The weary to repose ! 

Haste ! on each mountain's Jarkening crest, 
The glow hath died, the shadows rest. 
The twilight-star, on Deva's breast, 

Gleams tremulously bright; 
Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high ! 
Though scorn may A'ound me from her eye. 
Oh I better by the sun to die. 

Than live in rayless night ! 



THE MOUNTAIN-FIRES. 



The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcerthi) 
on November eve, is said to be a Iradiiional memorial of the 
massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury Plain. 
The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference 
originally to the Jilban Elaed, or new year. — See the Cam- 
bro- Brilon. 

When these fires are Iiindled on the mountains, and seen 
through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and 
fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly pic- 
turesque. 



Light the hills! till Heaven is glowing 
As with some red meteor's rays ! 

Winds of night, though rudely blowing. 
Shall but fan the beacon-blaze. 



* " I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed 
upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry- 
flower bloom. The speed was wilh eagerness, and the strong 
long-ham'd steed of Alban reached the summit of the high- 
land of Bran." 

t " My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O 
thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves \ * * * 
* * I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards ob- 
taining thy love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the 
flowers of tlie hawthorn!" — Hovvel's Ode lo JluJaiiuy. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



479 



Liglit the hills ! till flames are streiiming-, 
From * Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep, 

To the waves lonnd Mona g-loaiiiing-, 
Where the Roman track'd the deep ! 

Be tlic monntain watch-fires heighteri'd. 
Pile them to the stormy sky ! 

Till ench torrent-wave is brighten'd, 
Kindlino- as it rushes by. 

Now each rocli, the mist's high dwelling, 

Towers in reddening light sublime; 

Heap the flames! around fliem telling 
Tales of Cambria's elder time. 

Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted, 

Many a solemn vigil kept, 
When, in ages long departed, 

O'er the noble dead they wept. 
Iii the winds we hear their voices, 
--"Sons ! though yours a brighter lot. 
When the mountain-land rejoices, 

Be her mighty unforgotl" 



ERYRI WEN. 



" Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, ns 
Parnassus was by the Grepks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is 
Btill said, Ibat whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wal;e in- 
spired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. 
The Welsh had always the slronfiest attachment to the Iract 
of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that 
ot Lord of Snowdon." — Pennant. 



Theirs was no dream, oh ! Monarch-hill, 
With heaven's own azure erown'd ! 

Who call'd thee — what thou shall be still. 
White Snowdon ! — holy ground. 

They fabled not, thy sons, who told 
Of the dread power, enshrin'd 

Within thy cloudy mantle's fold, 
And on thy rushing wind ! 

It shadow'd o'er thy silent height. 

It fiU'd thy chainless air, 
Deep thoughts of majesty and might. 

For ever breathing there. 

Nor hath it fled ! the awful spell 

Yet holds unbroken sway, 
As when on that wild rock it fell. 

Where Merddin Emrys lay !t 



* Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean 
the conspicuous place, or object. 

t Dinas Ennys (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated rock 
amonzst the mountains of Snowdon, is said lo be so called 
from having been ihe residence of Merddin Emryi^, called by 
the Lalms Werlinus Ambrosius, Ihe celebrated prophet and 
magician : and there iradilion says, he wrote his prophecies 
concerning ihe future stale of ihe Britons. 

'J'here is anmlier curious tradition respecting a large stone, 
on the ascent of Snowdon, called Macn du yr Arddu, Ihe 
black slone of Ard.lu. It is said, that if iwo persons were to 
sleep a night on this slone, in the morning one would find 
liimself endowed wiih ihc gift of poclry, and the olhisr would 
becofnn insane. — See JVillianis' i Observations on the Sjww- 
don Jlaanlaias. , 



Though from their stormy haunts of yore, 

Thine eagles long have flown,| 
As proud a flight tiie soul shall soar, 

Yet, from thy mountain-throne ! 

Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams 
And make the snows thy crest! 

The sunlight of immortal dreams 
Around thee still shafl -rest. 

Eryri ! temple of the bard ! 

And fortress of the free ! 
'Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, 

Their spirit dwells with thee ! 



CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR 
MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.§ 



Raise ye the svrord ! let the death-stroke be given. 
Oh ! swift may it fall as the lightning of Heaven ! 
So shall our spirits be free as our strains, 
The children of song may not languish in chains 

Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest? 
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast? 
Red with her blood do her mountain-streams flow. 
And think ye that still we would linger below ? 

Rest, ye brave dead ! 'midst the hills of your sires, 
Oh! who would not slumber when freedom expires? 
Lonely and voiceless your nails must remain, 
— The children of song may not breathe in the 
chain ! 



THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.I 



Where are they, those green fairy islands, repo- 
sing _ 
In sunlight and beauty, on ocean's calm breast? 
What spirit, the things which are hidden disclo- 
sing, 
Shall point the bright way to their dwellings 
of rest ? 



X It is believed, amongst Ihe inhabitants of these mountains, 
that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofiy clefis of their 
rocke. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though 
very rarely, amongst the precipices.— Sw the. same Work. 

5 This sanguinary deed is not alte.sted by any historian of 
credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of tho 
bardic productions since Ihe lime of Edward make any alhi 
sion to such an event. — See the Camhro- Briton, Vol. I. p. 19.5, 
The "Green Islands of Ocean," or "Green Spots of tha 
Floods," called in Ihe Triads "Gwerdd<inap Llion," (re 
specling which s<]me remarkable superstitions have been pre- 
served in Wales,) were supposed to be the abodes of the Fan 
Family, or souls of Ihe virtuous Druids, who could not enlei 
the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy ihis para- 
dise of Iheir own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain 
of iho fifih century, went on a voyage, with his family, to 
discover these islands ; but Ihey were never heard of "xfiei 
wards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with nn 
twelve bards, and the expedilioti of Madog, were called ll-c 
llirec los.^es by disappearance of the island of Britain. — Vidn 
W. O. Pu^he's Cambrian Biograpku, also Cambro- B i iUii, 
vol. i. p. YZi. 



480 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Oh ! lovely Ihey rose on the dreams of past ages, 
The mig-hty have sought tliem, undaunted in 
faith ; 
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and 
sages, 
For the guide to those realms of the blessed, is 
death. 

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, 
Who steer'd for those distant green spots on 
the wave ? 
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild 
story, 
In the fields of their country they found not a 
grave. 

Perchance they repose where tlie Summor-brecze 

gathers. 
From the flowers of each vale, immortality's 

breath ; 
Bat their steps shall be ne'er on the hL^s of their 

fathers — 
For the guide to those realms of thn blessed, is 

death. 



THE HIRLAS HORN 



Fill high the blue hirlas* that sLii^es like the 
wavet 
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the 
sea; 
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave. 

The dragons of battle, the sons of the free ! 
To those from whose spears, in the shock of tke 
fight, 
A beam, like heaven's lightning,t flash'd over 
the field ; 
To those who came rushing as storms in their 
might. 
Who have shiver'd the helmet, and cloven the 
shield ; 
The sound of whose strife was like ocean's afar. 
When lances were red from the harvest of war. 

Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill 

For the lords of the field, in their festival's hour. 
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill. 

That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of ils 
power : 
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth 
horn 

Of honour and mirth,§ for the conflict is o'er; 
And round let the golden-tipp'd hirlas be borne, 

To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore, 

* Hivlas, from kir, long, and glas, blue or azure. 

* "Fetch the horn, that we mny drink togct.hur, whose sloss 
,£ lilte tlie waves of the sea ; whose green handles show the 
skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold." — From the Hir- 

as of Owain Cyfeiling. 

: " Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of 
arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, 
where tire flashed out of their spears." — Frum the same. 

|{, " Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn — badge of honour and 
mirth." — From the same. 



Who rush'd to the field where the glory was won, 
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. 

Fill higher the hirlas ! forgetting not those 

Who shared its bright draught in the days 
which are fled ! 
Though cold on their mountain the valiant repose, 
Their lot shall be lovely — renown to tlie dead ! 
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, 
While regal Enjri with snow shall be crown'd — 
So long by the bards shall tlieir battles be sung. 
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the 
sound. 
The free winds of MaelorU shall swell with their 

name, 
And Owain's ricli hirlas be fiU'd to their fame. 



THE FAIR ISLE.ir 

(FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE " WELlsE 
GROUND.") 



Sons of the Fair Isle ! forget not the time, 

Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your 

clime : 
All that its eagles behold in their flight 
Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled 

height. 
Though from your race that proud birthright be 

torn, 
Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy bom. 

CHORUS. 

Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, 
The crown shall not pass from the beautiful Isle. 

Ages may roll ere your children regain 
The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain 
Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power 
Around her still gathering in glory's full hour. 
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, 
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep. 

CKCRUS. 

Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, 
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle, 



SONG. 

FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE. 



Away ! though still thy sword is red 

With life-blood from my sire, 
No drop of thine may now be shed 

To quench my bosom's fire; 
Though on my heart 't would fall more blest, 
Than dews upon the desert's breast. 



II Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, accoril 
ing to the modern division. 
IT Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of ErifeViV 

and signifies /aiV or beautiful isle. 



I 've sought Uiee 'midst the sons of men 

Through tlie wido city's fanes; 
I 'vc sought thee by tiie lion's den, 

O'er p^ithless, boundless plains; 
No step that nuirk'd the burning- waste, 
But mine its lonely course liath traced. 

Thy name hath been a baleful spell, 

O'er my dark spirit cast ; 
No tliought may dream, no words may tell, 

Wliat tiiere unseen liath pass'd : 
This wither'd cheek, this faded eye. 
Are seals of thee — behold 1 and fly .' 

Hath not my cup for tliee been pour'd, 
Beneath the palm-tree's shade ? 

Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored, 
Within my dwelling laid ? 

Wiiat though unknown — yet who shall rest 

Secure — if not the Arab's guest? 

Haste thee ! and leave my threshold-floor, 

Inviolate and pure ! 
Let nut thy presence tempt me more, 

— Man may not thus endure! 
Away ! I bear a fettcr'd arm, 
A heart that burns — but must not harm ! 

Begone ! outstrip the swift gazelle ! 

The wind in speed subdue! 
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well. 

As vengeance shall pursue; 
And hate, like love, in parting pain, 
Smiles o'er one hope — we meet again ! 

To-morrow — and tli' avenger's hand, 

Tiie warrior's dart is free ! 
Even now, no spot in all thy land, 

Save this, had siielter'd thee. 
Let blood the monarch's hall profane,— 
The Arab's tent must bear no stain I 

Fly ! may the desert's fiery blast 

Avoid thy secret way ! 
And sternly, till thy steps be past. 

Its whirlwinds sleep to-day ! 
I would not that thy doom should be 
Assign'd by Heaven to aught but me. 



ALP-HORN SONG. 
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK. 



What dost thou here, brave Swiss? 
Forgett'st thou thus thy native clime— 
The lovely land of thy bright spring-time? 
The land of thy home, with its iree delights. 
And fresh green valleys and mountain-heights? 

Can the stranger's yield thee bliss ? 

What welcome cheers thee now ? 
Dar'st thou lilt thine eye to gaze around ! 
Wiiere are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths 
crown'd 

43 



Where is the song, on the wild winds borne, 
Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn. 
Or the peasant's fearless brow ? 

But thy spirit is far away ! 
Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes. 
Where the white Alps look through the sunny 

skies, 
With the low senn-cabms, and pastures free. 
And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea, 

And the summits, clothed with day I 

Back, noble child of Tell ! 
Back to the wild and the silent glen, 
And the frugal board of peasant-men ! 
Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, liere ?~ 
Away ! not a true Swiss heart is near. 

Against thine own to swell ! 



HAUNTED GROUND. 



"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside fur ever — it may be a sound, 
A tone ofmusic, Summer eve, or Spring, 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 

Striking llie electric chain, wherev/ith we are darkly bound." 

Byron. 



.Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene, 
Fair as it looks, and ail softly green ; 
Yet fear thou not — for the spell is thrown. 
And the might of the shadow, on me alone. 

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, 
And spirits that dwell where the water plays ? 
Oh ! in the heart there are stronger powers, 
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours ! 

Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells, 
And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells, 
And learn'd in my own deep soul to look. 
And tremble before that mysterious book? 

Have I not, under these whispering leaves. 
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves 7 
Shadows — yet unto which lile seem'd bound 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground'' 

Must I not hear what thou hcarest not. 
Troubling the air of the sunny spot? 
Is there not something to rouse but me, 
Told by the rustling of every tree ? 

Song hath been here — with its flow of thought, 
Love — with its passionate visions fraught; 
Death — breathing stillness and sadness round~" 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground ^ 

Are there no phantoms, but such as eome 

By night from the darkness that wraps the 

tomb ? — 
A sound, a scent, or a wliispcring breeze. 
Can sutnmon up mi2;htier litr tiian these ,' 



482 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



But I may not linger amidst them here ! 
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear; 
Passing and leaving a weight behind, 
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. 

Away, away ! — that my soyl may soar 
As a free bird of blue skies once more ! 
Here from its wing it may never cast 
The chain by those spirits brought back from the 
past. 

Doubt it not — smile not — but go thou, too, 
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew — 
Where thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee, 
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free ; 

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, 
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged ; 
When from the idols thy heart hath made, 
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade ; 

Oh ! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh, 
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye, 
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound. 
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted 
ground. 



THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS. 

(WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF 
JOHN HUNTER.) 



Is not thy heart far off amidst the vi'oods, 
Where the red Indian lays his father's dust, 

And, by the rushing of the torrent floods 
To the Great Spirit, bows in silent trust? 

Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, 

To pour itself upon the wilds again ? 

They are gone forth, the desert's warrior-race, 
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe ; 

But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, 
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow ? 

Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair, 

And where art thou? — thine arrows are not there. 

They rest beside their streams — the spoil is won — 
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough; 

The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is done — 
They hear the tales of old — but where art thou? 

The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, 

And there a place is fill'd that once was thine. 

For thou art mingling with the citj''s throng, 
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside; 

Child of the forests ! thou art borne along, 
E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. 

But will this be? and canst thou here find rest? 

Thou hadst thy aurture on the desert's breast. 

Comes not the eound of torrents to thine ear, 
From the savannah-land, the land of streams ? 

Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may 
hear ? 
Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams ? 



They call — wild voices call thee o'er the main, 
Back to thy free and boundless woods again. 

Hear them not ! hear them not ! — thou canst 
not find 
In the far wilderness what once was thine ! 
Thou hast quaff'd knowledge from the founts of 
mind, 
And gather'd loftier aims and hopes divine. 
Thou knovv'st the soaring thought, the immorti 

strain — 
Seek not the deserts and the woods again ! 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF » * * . 



In the full tide of melody and mirth — 

While joy's bright spirit beams from every e3'e, 

Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, 
Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die. 

Forget him not, for many a festal hour, 

Charm'd by those strains, for us has lightly flown, 

And memory's visions, mingling with their power, 
Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone. 

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays 
Revive life's morning dreams when youth is fled, 

And, fraught with images of other days. 
Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead. 

His the dear art whose spells awhile renew 
Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom — 

Oh ! what were life, without such moments threw 
Bright gleams, " like angel-visits," o'er its 
gloom ? 



THE CONTADINA. 

WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE. 



Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine, 
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam's 

shrine ; 
And not for the rich blue heaven that showers 
Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers; 
And not for tire scent of the citi-on trees — 
Fair peasant ! I call thee not blest for these. 

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow, 
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw; 
And not for the lustre that laugiis from thine eye, 
Like a dark stream's flash to the sunny sky. 
Though the south in its riches nought lovelier 

sees — 
Fair peasant ! I call thee not blest for these. 

But for those breathing and loving things — 
For tlie boy's fond arrrj that around thee clings, 
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, 
In the peace of a trusting child's repose — 
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast, 
Oh ! richly I call thee, and deeply blest ! 



ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF 
GRUTLL 



WnKNCE art tliou, flower ? from holy ground, 
Where freedom's loot hath been! 

Yet bugle-bla.st or trumpet sound 
Ne'er shook that solemn scene. 

Flower of a noble field ! thy birth 
Was not where spears have cross'd, 

And shiver'd heluis have sfrewn the earth, 
'Midst banners won and lost. 

But where the sunny hues and showers 

Unto thy cup were given, 
There met high hearts at midnight hours, 

Pure hands were raised to heaven. 

And vows were pledged that man should roam 

Through every Alpine dell. 
Free as tlie wind, the torrent's foam, 

The shaft of William Tell. 

And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, 

Hallow'd the pastoral sod, 
And souls grew strong for battle there, 

Nerved with tlie peace of God. 

Before the Alps and stars they knelt, 

Tliat calm devoted band. 
And rose, and made their spirits felt 

Through all the mountain land. 

Then welcome Griitli's free-born flower ! 

Even in tliy pale decay 
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power. 

Which all high thoughts obey. 



THE STAR OF THE JUNE. 



From the deep chambers of a mine. 

With heavy gloom o'erspread, 
I saw a star at noontide shine. 

Serenely o'er my head. 

I had not seen it 'midst the glow 

Of the rich upper day ; 
But in tliat shadowy world below. 

How my heart bless'd its ray I 

And still, the farther from my sight 

Torciics and lamps were borne. 
The purer, lovelier, secm'd the light 

That wore its beams unshorn. 

Oh ! what is like thnt heavenly spark? 

— A friend's kind sleadfast eye; 
Where, brightest when the world grows dark, 

Hope, cheer, and comfort lie ! 



TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BaR 
TON, THE QUAKER POET. 



Happy thou art, the child of one 
Who in eacli lowly flower, 

Eaeli leaf tliat glances to tlie sun. 
Or trembles with the shower ; 

In each soft shadow of the sky. 
Or sparkle 6f the stream. 

Will guide thy kindling spirit's eye 
To trace the Love Supreme. 

So shall deep quiet fill thy breast, 
A joy in wood and wild ; — ■ 

And e'en for this I call thee blest. 
The gentle poet's child i 



TO AN ORPHAN. 



Thou hast been rear'd too tenderly. 

Beloved too well and long, 
Watcli'd by too many a gentle eye — 

Now look on life — be strong ! 

Too quiet seem'd thy joys for change, 

-Too holy and too deep ; 
Bright clouds, through summer skies that ranfr^ 
Seem oft-times thus to sleep : — 

To sleep in silvery stillness bound, 

As things that ne'er may melt ; 
Yet gaze again — no trace is found 

To show thee where they dwelt. 

This world hath no more love to give 
Like that which thou hast known ; 

Yet the heart breaks not — we survive 
Our treasures — and bear on. 

But oh ! too beautiful and blest 

Thy home of youth hath been ! 
Wliero sliall thy wing, poor bird, find rest, 

Shut out from that sweet scene ? 

Kind voices from departed years 

Must haunt tliee many a day ; 
Looks that will smite the source of tears, 

Across thy soul must play. 

Friends — now the altcr'd or the dead, 

And music tliat is gone — 
A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed, 

And thou shalt wake — alone. 

Alone ! it is in that deep word 
That all tliy sorrow lies; 
How is the heart to courngc stirr'd 
By smiles from kindred eyes • 



484 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And are these lost ? — and have I said 

To aught like thee — be strong? 
So bid the willow lift its head 

And brave the tempest's wrong ! 

Thou reed ! o'er which the storm hath pass'd- 

Tliou shaken with the wind ! 
On one, one friend thy weakness cast — 

There is but One to bind ! 



HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER. 



Father ! that in the olive shade 
When the dark hour came on, 
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, 
Strengthen thy Son; 

O ! by the anguish of that night, 

Send us down bless'd relief; 
Or to the chasten'd, let Ihy might 
Hallow this grief! 

And Thou, that when the starry sky 

Saw the dread strife begun, 
Didst teach adoring faith to cry, 

" Thy will be done ;" 

By that meek spirit, Thou of all 

That e'er have moiirn'd tiie chitif — ■ 
Thou Saviour ! if the stroke 7nust fall, 
Hallow this grief! 



TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.* 

They haunt me still — those calm, pure, holy eyes ! 

Their piercing sweetness wanders through my 
dreams : 
The soul of music that within them lies. 

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams : 
Life — spirit-life — immortal and divine — 
Is there — and yet how dark a death was thine ! 

Could it — oh I could it be — meek child of song ! 

The might of gentleness on that fair brow — 
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong ? 

Bore it no talisman to ward the blow ? 
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast, 
Might brave their strife — a flute-note hush the 
blast ! 

Are there not deep sad oracles to read 

In the clear stillness of tliat radiant face? 

Yes, even like thee nmst gifted spirits bleed. 
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no 
place ! 



That (if Bizzio, at Elolyroodhouse. 



Bright exiled birds that visit alien skies. 
Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies. 

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast. 

Whereon their trembling plumage might repose, 

And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, 
Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows , 

Vain dream ! the love whose precious balms might 
save. 

Still, still denied — they struggle to the grave. 

Yet my heart shall not sink ! — another doom, 
Victim ! hath set its promise in tliine eye; 

A light there is, too quenchless for the tomb, 
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny; 

Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, 

To the deep souls that find no echo here. 



TO THE 

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY 

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOL, 

WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE, AND LAMENTED BY THB 
PEOPLE OF GREECE. 



"Time cannot toach forgetfulncss, 
When grief's full heart is fed by fame." 
Byron. 



Thou should'st have slept beneath the state/y 

pines. 
And with the ancestral trophies of thy race; 
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and 

shrines 
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place ! 
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been 

spread. 
Thou bright young stranger 'midst the mighl_y 

dead ! 

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given. 

Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave, 

Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, 
Which unlo death so oft hath lit the brave: 

And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, 

With all that sanctifies the inspiring air. 

Vain voice of fame ! sad sound for those that 
weep. 
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone 
Thy childliood dwells — whose thoughts a record 
keep. 
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone; 
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth — 
A vernal promise, faded novv' from earth ! 

But a bright memory claims a proud regret — 
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep sprinj;s 

Of healing balm ; and she hath tieasures yet, 
Whose soul can number with love's holy things, 

A name like thine ! Now, past all cloud or spot, 
A gem is hers, laid up where change is not. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



46i 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE* 



O EVER jo}'ous band 
or revellers amidst tlie southern vines ! 
On tlie pale marble, by some g-ifted hand, 

Fix'd in undying lines ! 

Thou, with the sculptured bowl, 
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, 
And tliou, from whose young lip and flute, the 
soul 

Of music seems to breathe ; 

And ye, luxuriant flowers ! 
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, 
And cluster'd fruitage, born of sunny hours, 

Under Italian skies: 

Ye, that a thousand springs. 
And leafy summers with their odorous breath. 
May yet outlast, — what do ye there, bright things! 

Mantling the place of death? 

Of sunlight and soft air. 
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, 
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear ; — 

Why thus, where dust hath been ? 

Is it to show how slight 
The bound that severs festivals and tombs, 
Music and silence, roses and the blight, 

Crowns and sepulcliral glooms ? 

Or when the father laid 
Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep. 
When the friend visited the cypress shade, 

Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 

Say if the mourners sought. 
In these rich images of summer mirth, 
These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the 
thought 

Of our last hour on earth ? 

Ye have no voice, no sound. 
Ye flutes and lyres, to tell me what I seek ; 
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown'd. 

Yet to my soul ye speak. 

Alas ! for those that lay 
Down in the dust without their hope of old ! 
Backward they look'd on life's rich banquet-day, 

But all beyond was cold. 

Every sweet wood-note then. 
And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's 

glow. 
And each glad murmur from the homes of men, 

Made it more hard to go. 



*"I.es earcophages meme chez les anciens, ne rappellent 
qiie lies idees guerriercs ou riantes: — on vuit des jnux, des 
danses, represenles en baa-reliel'sur lea lombea.ux.—Co7-inne. 
43* 



But we, when life grows dim, 
When its last melodies float o'er our way, 
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, 

Its flitting lights decay ; — 

E'en though we bid farewell 
Unto the spring's blue slues and budding trees, 
Yet may we lift our hearts, in hope to dwell 

'Midst brighter things than these. 

And think of deathless flowers. 
And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, 
And know the while, how little dream of ours 

Can shadow ibrth of Heaven. 



HE WALK'D WITH GOD.t 

(Genesis v. 24.) 



He walk'd with God, in holy joy, 
While yet his days were few ; 

The deep glad spirit of the boy 
To love and reverence grew. 

Whether, each nightly star to count 
The ancient hills he trode, 

Or sought the flowers by stream and fount- 
Alike he walk'd with God. 

The graver noon of manhood came. 

The full of cares and fears ; 
One voice was in his heart — the same 

It heard through childhood's years. 
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains. 

O'er his green pasture-sod, 
A shepherd king on eastern plains — 

The patriarch walk'd with God, 

And calmly, brightly, that pure life 

Melted from earth away ; 
No cloud it knew, no parting strife, 

No sorrowful decay ; 
He bow'd him not, like all beside, 

Unto the spoiler's rod. 
But join'd at once the glorified. 

Where angels walk with God ! 

So let vs walk ! — the night must come 

To us that comes to all; 
We througli the darkness must go home, 

Hearing the trumpet's call. 
Closed is the path for evermore. 

Which without death he trod ; 
Not so that way, wherein of yore 

His footsteps walk'd with God ! 



t " These two little pieces," ('He walk'd with Gcd," and 
'The Rod of Aaron,') .<!ays the author in one of her le.toi 
" are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called 
.Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on Scriptural siihiccts, 
! and to go through the most sinking events of Ihe Old Tea 
! lament, to Inose far more deeply afiecting ones of the New 



486 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



THE ROD OF AARON. 

{J^umbers xvii. 8.) 



Was it the sigfh of the southern gale 
That flush'd the almond bough ? 

Brightest and first the young Spring to hail, 
Still its red blossoms glow. 

Wus it the sunshine that woke its flowers 

With a kindling look of love ? 
Oh, far and deep, and through hidden bowers, 

That smile of heaven can rove I 

No ! from the breeze and the living light 

Shut was the sapless rod ; 
But it felt in the stillness a secret might, 

And thrill'd to the breath of God. 

E'en so raay that breath, like the vernal air, 

O'er our glad spirits move ; 
And all such things as are good and fair, 

Be the blossoms, its track that prove 1 



IMPROMPTU LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., 

ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN 
CONFINED BY ILLNESS. 



Ye tell me not of birds and bees, 
Not of the Summer's murmuring trees, 
Not of the streams and woodland bowers : — 
A sweeter tale, is yours, fair flowers ! 

Glad tidings to my couch ye bring, 

Of one still bright, still flowing spring — 

A fount of kindness ever new, 

In a friend's heart, the good and true. 



TO THE NEW-BORN.* 



A BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many hopes 
and fears ! 

A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled 
smiles and tears. 

Thy father greets thee unto life, with a full and 
chasten'd heart, 

For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all pre- 
cious as thou art ! 

I see thee not asleep, fair boy, upon thy mother's 

breast, 
Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy 

rosy rest ; 
And how her soul with love, and prayer, and 

gladness, will o'erflow. 
While bending o'er thy sofl-seal'd eyes, thou dear 

one, well I know ! 

* AdarG'iSud to the child of her eldest brother. 



A blessing on thy gentle head ! and bless'd thou 
art in truth. 

For aJiome where God is felt, awaits thy child- 
hood and thy youth : 

Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell 
as light and air. 

And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs 
now folded there. 

Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto 

her is given. 
In that young day-spring glance the pledge of 

a soul to rear for heaven ! 
Smile ! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy 

o'er thy wakening shed ! 
Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy ! upon 

thy head ! 



EPITAPH. 



Farewell, beloved and mourn'd ! we miss awhile 

The tender gentleness of voice and smile, 

And that bless'd gift of Heaven, to cheer us lent — 

That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent. 

Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, 

high. 
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony ; 
Yet from those very memories there is born 
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn. 
Oh ! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode, 
To meet at last " the pure in heart" with God ! 



TO GIULIO REGONDI, 

THE BOY GUITARIST. 



Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy ! 

Never may suffering wake a deeper tone. 
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy. 

Calls forth exulting from the chords which own 
Thy fairy touch ! Oh ! may'st thou ne'er be taught 
The power whose fountain is in troubled thought! 

For in the light of those confiding eyes,^ 

And on the ingenuous calm of that clear brow, 

A dower, more precious e'en than genius lies, 
A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal 
glov/ ! 

God, who hath graced thee thus, oh, gentle child, 

Keep 'midst the world thy brightness undej'iled ! 



O YE HOURS. 



O VE hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Flouting lightly by. 
Are ye come with birds and flowers, 

Odours and blue sky ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



48/ 



" Yes, wc come, again we come, 
Tlirouirh the wood-paths free ; 

Briiiijitig' many a wanderer home 
Witli llio bird and bee." 

O ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Are ye wafting- song? 
Doth wild inusie stream in siiowers, 

All the groves among? 

"Yes, tlie niglitingale is there 

While the starlight reigns. 
Making young leaves and sweet air 

Tremble with her strains." 

O ye liours ! ye sunny hours ! 

In your silent flow, 
Ye are mighty, mighty powers! 

Bring ye bliss or woe ? 

" Ask not this —oh ! seek not this ! 

Yield your hearts awhile 
To the soft wind's balmy kiss, 

And the heavens' bright smile. 

** Throw not shades of anxious thought 

O'er the glowing flowers ! 
We are come with sunshine fraught, 

Question not the hours I" 



TO CAROLINE. 

When thy bounding step I hear, 
And thy soft voice, low and clear ; 
When lliy glancing eyes I meet, 
In their sudden laughter sweet — 
Thou, I dream, wert surely born 
For a path by care unworn ! 'I 
Thou must be a shelter'd flovper, 
With but sunshine for thy dower. 

Ah ! fair child, not e'en for thee 
May this lot of brightness be ; 
Yet, if grief must add a tone 
To tliine accents now unknown; 
If within that cloudless eye 
Sadder thought must one day lie, 
Still, I trust the signs which tell 
On thy lite a light shall dwell, 
Light — tliy gentle spirit's own, 
From within around thee thrown. 



THE BED OF HEATH. 

Soldier, awake ! the night is past ; 
Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast? 
Feel'st thou not the dny-spring's breath ? 
Rouse tiice from thy bed of heath ! 

Arm, tiiou bold and strong ! 



Soldier, what deep spell hath bound t.hee? 
Fiery steeds are neighing round thee; 
Banners to the fresh wind play, — 
Rise, and arm ; — 't is duy, 't is day ! 

And thou hast slumber'a Iclg. 

" Brother, on the heathery lea 
Longer yet my sleep must be ; 
Though the morn of battle rise. 
Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes. 

Brother, this is death ! 

" Call mc not when bugles sound. 
Call me not when wine flows round ; 
Name me but amidst the brave; 
Give me but a soldier's grave — 

But my bed of heath !" 



FAIRY SONG. 



Have ye left the greenwood lone ? 
Are your steps for ever gone ? 
Fairy King and Elfin Queen, 
Come ye to the sylvan scene, 
From your dim and distant shore 

Never more ? 

Shall the pilgrim never hear 
With a thrill of joy and fear, 
In the hush of moonlight hours, 
Voices from the folded flowers, 
Faint sweet flute-notes as of yore, 

Never more ? 

" Mortal ! ne'er shall bowers of earth 
Hear again our midnight mirth : 
By our brooks and dingles green 
Since unhallow'd steps have been, 
Ours shall thread the forests hoar 

Never more. 

" Ne'er on earthborn lily's stem 
Will we hang the dewdrop's gem; 
Ne'er shall reed or cowslip's head 
Quiver to our dancing tread. 
By sweet fount or murmuring shore. 
Never more!" 



OH! IF THOU WILT NOT GIVE THINlfi 
HEART. 



On ! if thou wilt not give thine heart, 
Give back mine own to me,* 

Or bid thine image thence depart, 
And leave me lone, but free. 



« The first two lines of tliia song are literally translated I'ora 
the German. 



Yet no ! this mournful love of mine, 
I would not from me cast ! 

Let me but dream 'twill win me thine 
By its deep truth at last. 

Can ausjht so fond, so faithful, live 
Through years without reply ? 

Oh ! if thine heart thou wilt not give, 
Give me a thought, a sigh ! 



LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE. 



It is thy pity makes me weep. 

My soul was strong before ; 
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep 

From vainly gushing o'er! 
Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes — 

In this fond gaze my spirit dies. 

Look on me thus no more ! 

Too late that softness comes to bless, 

My heart's glad life is o'er; 
It will but brealt with tenderness. 

Which cannot now restore ! 
The lyre-strings have been jarr'd too long, 

Winter hath touch'd the source of song ! 
Look on me thus no more ! 



HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO 
LONE. 



How can that love so deep, so lone, 

So faithful unto death, 
Thus fitfully in laughing tone. 

In airy word, find breatli 1 

Nay, ask how on the dark wave's breast, 

The lily's cup may gleam, 
Though many a mournful secret rest 

Low in the unfathom'd stream. 

That stream is like my hidden love, 

In its deep cavern's power. 
And like the play of words above, 

That lily's trembling flower. 



ro MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



VVtiat wish can Friendship form for thee. 
What brighter star invoke to shine ? — 

Thy path from every thorn is free. 
And every rose is thine ! 

iiife hath no purer joy in store. 
Time hath no sorrow to efface ; 

Kopo cannot paint one blessing more 
Than memory can retrace ! 



Some hearts a boding fear might own, 
Had Fate to them thy portion given, 

Since many an eye by tears alone, 
Is taught to gaze on Heaven I 

And there are virtues oft conceal'd, 
Till roused by anguish from repose, 

As odorous trees no balm will yield. 
Till from their wounds it flows. 

But fear not thou the lesson fraught 

With Sorrovv''s chastening power to know. 

Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught, 
" To melt at others' woe." 

Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, 
Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth : 

Ah ! why should Virtue dread the storm. 
If sunbeams prove her worth ? 



WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF THE 
ALBUM OF THE SAME. 



What first should consecrate as thine. 
The volume, destined to be fraught 

With many a sweet and playful line. 
With many a pure and pious thought ? 

It should be, what a loftier strain 

Perchance less meetly would impart ; 

What never yet was pour'd in vain, — 
The blessing of a grateful heart — 

For kindness, which hath soothed the hour 
Of anxious grief, of weary pain. 

And oft, with its beguiling power, 

Taught languid Hope to smile again ; 

Long shall that fervent blessing rest 

On thee and thine, and, heavenwards borne, 

Call down such peace to soothe thy breast. 
As thou wouldst bear to all that mourn. 



TO THE SAME— ON THE DEATH OF 
HER MOTHER. 



Say not 't is fruitless, nature's holy tear. 
Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier ! 
More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls 
Each drop to life some latent virtue calls; 
Awakes some purer hope, ordain'd to rise. 
By earthly sorrow strengthen'd for the skies. 
Till the sad earth, whose pangs exalt its love, 
"With its lost treasure, seeks a home — above. 

But grief will claim her hour, — and He, whose eye 
Looks pitying down on nature's agony, 
He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleeps 
Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep ! 



He, too, hath wept — and 'feacred be the woes 
Once honic by him, their inmost source who 

knows, 
Searclics each wound, and bids His Spirit bring 
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing ! 

And who but He sliall soothe, when one dread 

stroke. 
Ties, that were fibres of tlie soul, hath broke ? 
Oil ! well tnay those, yet lingering here, deplore 
The vanisl^'d light, that cheers their path no more! 
Th' Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt. 
Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt ! 
By fire and storm. Heaven tries the Christian's 

worth, 
And joy departs, to wean us from the earth. 
Where still too long, with beings born to die, 
Time hath dominion o'er Eternity. 

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost. 
Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the most; 
Then comes her triumph ! through the shadowy 

gloom, 
Her star in glory rises from the tomb. 
Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below. 
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow ! 
Yes, all is o'er ! fear, doubi, suspense are fled, 
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead ! 
The final ordeal of the soul is past. 
And the pale brow is seal'd to Heaven at last !* 

And thou, loved spirit ! for the skies mature, 
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure; 
Thou that didst make the home thy presence blest 
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast. 
Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found. 
Whence beam'd her smile benignantly around; 
Thou, that to bosoms widow'd and bereft 
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left. 
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be, 
Till Heaven recall surviving love to thee ! — 

O cherish'd and revered ! fond memory well 
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell! 
So pure, so blest thy life, that death alone 
Could make more perfect happiness thine own ; 
He came — thy cup of joy, serenely bright. 
Full to the last, still flow'd in cloudless light; 
He came — an angel, bearing from on high 
The all it wanted — Immortality ! 



A DIRGE. 



Wekp for the early lost !— 
How many flowers were mingled in the crown 
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down, 

E'en when lile promised most. 
How many hopes have wither'd — they that bow 
To Heaven's dread will, feel all its mysteries now. 



* "Till we Inve sealed tho servants of God in their fore- 
heads. ' — llecclations. 

211 



Did the young mother's eye 
Behold her child, and close upon the day, 
Ere from its glance th' awakening spirit's ray 

In sunshine could reply ! 
— Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn ! 
Oh ! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne. 

For there is hush'd on earth 
A voice of gladness — there is veil'd a fiice, 
Wljose parting leaves a dark and silent place, 

By the once-joyous hearth. 
A smile hath pass'd, which fill'd its home with 

light ; 
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright ! 

But there is power with faith ! 
Power, e'en though nature, o'er the untimely grave 
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave ; 

For sorrow comes of Death, 
And with a yearning heart we linger on, 
When they, whose glance unlock'd its founts, are 
gone ! 

But glory from the dust, 
And praise to Him, the merciful, for those 
On whose bright memory love may still repose, 

With an immortal trust! 
Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, 
Such hope as she hath left. — " the pure in heart." 

1823. 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF GARCILASSO 
DE LA VEGA. 

Divine Eliza ! — since the sapphire sky 
Thou measur'st now on angel wings, and feet 
Sandall'd with immortality — oh why 
Of me forgetful ! — Wherefore not entreat 
To hurry on the titne when I shall see 
The veil of mortal being rent in twain, 
And smile that 1 am .r°«^ 

In the third circle of that happy land 
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand, 
Another lovelier landscape, a new plain. 
Other romantic streams and mountains blue, 
And other vales, and a new shady shore, 
When' I may rest, and ever in my view 
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise 
Of being sunder'd more ! 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARu 



On! pure and blessed soul 

That, from thy clay's control 
Escaped, hast sought and found Ihy native sphere 

And from thy crystal throne 

Look'st down, with smiles alone, 
On this vain scene of mortal hope and feir 



490 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Tny happy feet have trod 

The starry spangled road, 
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding, 

And from their erring track. 

Thou charm'st thy shepherds back, 
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding, 

O ! who shall Death withstand — 

Death, whose impartial hand 
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine! 

When shall our ears again 

Drink in so sweet a strain. 
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine ! 



MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF 
CARTHAGE. 



Marius, during the time of his exile, seekinK refuge in Africa, 
liad landed at Canhage, when an oificer, sent by the Roman 
governcir of Africa, came and thus addressed him : — " Marius, 
I come from the Prcstor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids 
you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the 
Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy." Marius, 
upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. 
He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the otficer 
with a menacing aspect. At length the officer enquired what 
answer he should carry to the governor. " Go and tell him," 
taid the unfortunale man, with a sigh, " that thou ha3t seen 

the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage." See 

rLUTARCH. 



T WAS noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high. 
With fierce resplendence fill'd th' unclouded sky ; 
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head. 
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread ; 
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light. 
Silent and lonely as at dead of night. 
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes 
Had strew'd their precious marble o'er the plains ; 
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergroy,'n, 
The lizard bask'd unoi' ',he altar-stone ; 
Whelm'd by the rums of their own abodes. 
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of Gods ; 
While near, dread offspring of the burning day ! 
Coil'd 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay. 

There came an exile, long by fate pursued, 
To shelter in that avi'ful solitude. 
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien 
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert-scene ; 
Shadovv'd, not veil'd, by locks of wintry snovp'. 
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow'd brow ; 
Time had not queneh'd the terrors of his eye, 
Nor famed his glance of fierce ascendency ; 
Willie the deep meaning of his features told, 
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit roll'd. 
Nor dimm'd the fire that might not be controll'd; 
And still did power invest his stately form, 
Bhatter'd, but yet unconquer'd, by the storm. 

But slow his step — and where, not yet o'er- 
thrown, 
Slill tower'd a pillat 'midst the waste alone, 



Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, 
To slumber in its solitary shade. 
He slept — and darkly, on his brief repose, 
Th' indignant genius of the scene arose. 
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread 
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, 
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, 
The kingly shadow seem'd to lift his chain, 
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, 
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn ! 

" And sleep'st thou, Roman ?" cried his voice 
austere ; 
" Shall son of Latium find a refuge here ? 
Awake ! arise ! to speed the hour of Fate, 
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate ! 
Go! with her children's flower, the free, the brave 
People the silent chambers of the grave; 
So shall the course of ages yet to be. 
More swiftly waft the day, avenging meS 

" Yes, from the awful gulf of years to comCj 
T hear a voice that prophesies her doom ; 
I see the trophies of her pride decay. 
And her long line of triumphs pass away. 
Lost in the depths of time — while sinks the stai 
That led her march of heroes from afar ! 
Lo ! from the frozen forests of the north. 
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth ! 
Who shall awake the mighty ? — will t'ly woe, 
City of thrones .' disturb the realms below ? 
Call on the dead to hear thee ! let thy cries 
Summon their shadovv'y legions to arise. 
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! 
— Barbarians revel in their ancient halls. 
And their lost children bend the subject knee, 
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. 
Bird of the sun ! dread eagle ! born on high, 
A creature of the empyreal — Thou, whose eye 
Was lightning to the earth — -whose pinion waved 
In haughty triumph o'er a vi'orld enslaved ; 
Sink from thy, Heavens ! for glory's noon is o'er. 
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more . 
Closed is thy regal course — thy crest is torn. 
And thy plume banish'd from the realms of morn. 
The shaft hath reach'd thee! — rest with chiefa 

and kings, 
Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings; 
Sleep ! while thy foes exult around their prey. 
And share thy glorious heritage of day ! 
But darker years shall mingle with the past, 
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. 
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread. 
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head! 
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine. 
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine : 
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone. 
Calling heroic shades from ages gone. 
Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait 
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate ! 

" Still sleep'st thou, Roman ? Son of Victory 
rise ! 
Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies ! 
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood 
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



491 



My children's manes call — awake ! prepare 
The feast tliey claim! — exult in Rome's despair! 
Be thine car closed against their suppliant cries, 
Bid thy soul triunipli in her agonies; 
Let carnage revel, e'en licr shrines among, 
Spare not tlie vaUant, pity not the young ! 
Haste ! o'er lier hills the sword's lihation shed, 
And wreak tiie curse of Carthage on her head !" 

The vision flies — a mortal step is near. 
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear; 
He starts, he wakes to woe — before liim stands 
Th' unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, 
Whose falt'ring accents tell the exiled chief, 
To seek on other shores a home for grief. 
— Silent the wanderer sat — but on his cheek 
Tiie burning glow far more than words might 

speak ; 
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke 
Language, where all th' indignant soul awoke. 
Till his deep thought found voice — then, calmly 

stern. 
And sovereign in despair, he cried, " Return ! 
Tell him who sent thee hither, tliou iiast seen 
Marius, the exile, rest where Cartilage once hath 

been !" 



APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THE 
CAPE TO VASCA DE GAMA. 

(translated from the fifth book of the 
lusiad of camoens.) 



Propitious winds our daring bark impell'd. 
O'er seas which mortal ne'er till then beheld. 
When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood 
Watching the prow glide swiftly through the flood. 
High o'er our heads arose a cloud so vast, 
O'er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast ; 
Awful, immense, it came ! so thick, so drear. 
Its gloomy grandeur chill'd our hearts witli fear, 
And the dark billow heaved with distant roar, 
Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky sliore. 

Thrill'd with amaze, I cried, " Supernal Power ! 
What mean the omens of this threatening hour ? 
What the dread mysterj^ of this ocean-cliine. 
So darkly giand, so fearfully sublime?" 
Scarce had I spoke, when, lo ! a mighty form 
Tower'd through the gathering shadows of the 

storm ; 
Of rude i)roportions and gigantic size. 
Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk eyes; 
Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses *flew. 
Sable his lips, and earthly p:ile his hue. 
Well may I tell thee, that his limbs and hcigiit, 
In vast dimensions and stupendous migiit, 
Surpass'd that wonder, once the sculptor's boast, 
The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast. 
Deep was his voice, in hollow tones he spoke. 
As if from ocean's inmost caves they broke; 
And but that form to view, that voice to hear, 
(Spread o'er our llesh and hair cold deadly thrills 

of fear 



" Oh ! daring band," he cried, " far, far more 
bold 
Than all whose deeds recording fame has fold ; 
Adventurous spirits ! whom no bounds of tear 
Can teach one pause in rapine's fierce careei ; 
Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main, 
Ye dare to violate my lonely reign, 
Where, till this moment, from the birth of time, 
No sail e'er broke the solitude sublime : 
Since thus ye pierce the veil by Nature thrown 
O'er the dark secrets of the deep Unknown, 
Ne'er yet reveal'd to aught of mortal birth, 
Howe'er supreme in power, unmatch'd in worth ; 
Hear from my lips what chastisements of fate. 
Rash, bold intruders ! on your course await! 
What countless perils, woes of darkest hue. 
Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must 
yet subdue ! 

" Know that o'er every bark, whose fearless helm 
Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm, 
Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour. 
And guard with storms my own terrific shore ! 
And on the fleet, which first presumes to brave 
The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, 
Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear 
Have time to prophesy destruction near ! 

" Yes, desperate band ! if right my nopes Ci»vine, 
Revenge, fierce, full, unequall'd, shall be mine '. 
Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous way, 
Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey ! 
And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find, 
(If no false dreams delude my prescient mind). 
My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm. 
Death shall be deein'd misfortune's mildest form. 



" Lo ! where my victim comes ! — of noble birth 
Of cultured genius, and exalted worth. 
With her,* his best beloved, in all her charms, 
Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms ! 
From foaming waves, from raging winds they flj 
Spared for revenge, reserved for agony ! 
Oh ! dark the fate that calls thee from their home. 
On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, 
And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb. 
For woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom ! 
— Yes I he shall see the offspring, loved in vain. 
Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering pain, 
Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear 
From her, the soft, the idolized, the fair ; 
Shall see those limbs, of Nature's finest mould, 
Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight-cold, 
And, in long wanderings o'er a desert land 
Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand, 

" Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold. 
Who lived through toils unequall'd and untold ! 
On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky, 
The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die ! 
Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense. 
Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense, 



i * Don Emmanuol de Sonza and his wire Ii9oaora de Si 



J 



492 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS, 



Till in one last embrace, with mortal throes, 
I'heir strugg-ling spirits mount from anguish to 
repose I" 

As the dark phantom sternly thus portray'd 
Our future ills, in Horror's deepest shade, — 
" Who then art thou ?" I cried, " dread being-, tell, 
Each sense thus bendhig in amazement's spell?" 
— With fearful shriek, far echoing o'er the tide, 
Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied — 
" Behold the genius of that secret shore. 
Where the wind rages, and the billows roar ; 
That stormy Cape, tor ages mine alone. 
To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknown ! 
Far to the southern pole my throne extends, 
That hidden rock, which Afric's region ends. 
Behold that spirit, whose avenging might. 
Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite." 



Thus having said, with strange, terrific cries, 
The giant-spectre vanish'd from our eyes ; 
In sable clouds dissolved — while far around, 
Dark ocean's heaving realms his parting yells 
resound ! 



THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 



Call it not loneliness, to dwell 
In woodland shade or hermit dell, 
Or the deep forest to explore. 
Or wander alpine regions o'er ; 
For Nature there all joyous reigns. 
And fills with life her wild domains : 
A bird's light wing may break the air, 
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there: 
A bee the mountain flowers may seek, 
A chamois bound from peak to peak ; 
An eagle, rushing to the sky. 
Wake the deep echoes with his cry ; 
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, 
Some voice, though not of man, is near. 
But he, whose weary step hath traced 
Mysterious Afric's awful waste — 
Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath view'd 
Can tell thee what is solitude ! 
It is, to traverse lifeless plains. 
Where everlasting stillness reigns, 
And billowy sands and dazzling sky, 
Seem boundless as infinity ! 
It is, to sink, with speechless dread, 
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, 
Sever'd from earthly being's trace. 
Alone, amidst eternal space ! 
'T IS noon — and fearfully profound, 
Silence is on tho desert round ; 
41une she r.,igns, above, beneath. 
With a'l the attributes of death ! 
No bird the blazing heaven may dare, 
No insect bide the scorching air ; 
The ostrich, though of sun-born race, 
Souks a more shelter'd dwelling-place ; 



The lion slumbers in his lair, 
The serpent shuns the noontide glare : 
But slowly wind the patient train 
Of camels o'er the blasted plain. 
Where they and man may brave alone 
The terrors of the burning zone. 

Faint not, O pilgrims ! though on high. 
As a volcano, flame the sky ; 
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow 
The dark-red seas of sand below ; 
Though not a shadow, save your own, 
Across the dread expanse is thrown ; 
Mark ! where, your feverish lips to lave. 
Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave ! 
Urge your tired camels on, and take 
Your rest beside yon glistening lake ; 
Thence, haply, cooler gules may spring, 
And fan your brows with lighter wing. 
Lo ! nearer now, its glassy tide 
Reflects the date-tree on its side — 
Speed on ! pure draughts and genial air, 
And verdant shade await you there. 
Oh glimpse of Heaven ! to him unknown. 
That hath not trod the burning zone ! 
Forward they press — they gaze dismay'd — • 
The waters of the desert fade I 
Melting to vapours that elude 
The eye, the lip, they vainly woo'd.* 
What meteor comes ? — a purple haze 
Hath half obscured the noontide rays :t 
Onward it moves in swift career, 
A blush upon tiie atmospliere ; 
Haste, haste ! avert th' impending doom, 
Fall prostrate ! 't is the dread Simoom ! 
Bow down your faces — till the blast 
On its red wing of flame hatli pass'd, 
Far bearing o'er the sandy wave 
The viewless Angel of the Grave. 

It came — 't is vanish'd — but hath left 
The wanderers e'en of hope bereft; 
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, 
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame; 
Faint with despondence, worn with toil, 
They sink upon the burning soil, 
Resign'd, amidst those realms of gloom. 
To find their death-bed and their tomh.t 

But onward still ! — yon distant spot 
Of verdure can deceive you not ; 
Yon palms, whicli tremulously seem'd 
Reflected as the waters glcam'd. 
Along th' horizon's verge display'd, 
Still rear tlieir slender colonnade — 
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain 
The Caravan's exhausted train. 
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss, 
The desert's emerald oasis ! 



* The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water 
t See the description of the Simoom in Bruce's TravtU. 
X The extreme languor and despondence produced by tha 
Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been de- 
scribed by many travellers. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4;)j 



A rainbow on the torrent's wave, 
A gem cnibosoin'd in the grave, 
A sunbcani on a stormy day, 
Its beauty's image ruiglit convey ! 
'Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps,' 
While silence round her vigil keeps. 
— Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid 
To slumber in tii' acacia shade : 
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise, 
Their aromatic breuth dilfuse ; 
Where softer light the sunbeams pour 
Through the tall palm and sycamore; 
And the rich date luxuriant spreads 
Its pendent clusters o'er your heads. 
Nature once more, to seal your eyes. 
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies ; 
Again each heart liie music hails 
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales, 
And oh I to Afric's child how dear 
The voice of fountains gushing near ! 
Sweet be your slumbers I and vour dreams 
Of waving groves and rippling streams! 
Far be the serpent's venom'd coil 
From the brief respite won by toil : 
Far be the awful shades of tiiose 
Who deep beneath the sands lepose — • 
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath 
Bore swift and stern the call of death. 
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade 
The freshness of the acacia shade. 
But gales of heaven your spirits bless. 
With life's best balm — Foigetfulness ! 
Till night from many an urn ditfuse 
The treasures of her world of dews. 



The day hath closed — the moon on high 
Walks in her cloudless majesty. 
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven 
Serene magnificence have given ; 
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame 
Shines forth eternally the same. 
Blest be their beams, whose holy light 
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, 
And lead, as with a track divine. 
The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine ! 
— Rise ! bid your Isle of Palms adieu ! 
Again your lonely march pursue. 
While airs of night are freshly blowing. 
And heavens with softer beauty glowing. 
— 'T is silence ell ; the solemn scene 
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien; 
For giant-rocks, at distance piled. 
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild. 
Darkly they rise — what eye hath view'd 
The caverns of their solitude ? 
Away ! within those awful cells 
The savage lord of Afric dwells ! 
Heard ye his voice ? — the lion's roar 
Swells as when billows break on shore. 
Well may the camel shake with fear, 
And the steed pant — his foe is near; 
Haste ! light (he torch, bid watch-fires thro'V 
I'ar o'er the waste, a ruddy glow ; 
Keep vigil — guard the bright array 
Of flames thai scare him from his prey ; 
44 



Within their magic circle press, 
O wanderers of the wilderness ! 
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze. 
Tell the wild talcs of elder days. 
Arabia's wond'rous lore — that dwells 
On warrior deeds, and wizard spells ; 
Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like these. 
Rising to vanish with the breeze; 
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed 
Their light where mortal may not tread. 
And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls 
Th' eternal billow heaves and falls. 
— With charms like these, of mystic powei, 
Watchers! beguile the midnight hour. 
— Slowly that hour hath roU'd away, 
And star by star withdraws its ray. 
Dark children of the sun ! again 
Your own rich orient hails his reign. 
He comes, but veil'd — with sanguine glare 
Tinging the mists that load the air ; 
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, 
Th' approaching hurricane proclaim. 
'Tis death's red banner streams on high — 
Fly to the rocks for shelter ! — fly ! 
Lo ; dark'ning o'er the fiery skies, 
The pillars of the desert rise ! 
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, 
A giant-host, the heavens concealing. 
They move, like mighty genii forms. 
Towering immense 'midst clouds and storms 
Who shall escape ? — with awful force 
The whirlwind bears them on their course, 
They join, they rush resistless on. 
The landmarks of the plain are gone ; 
The steps, the forms, from earth eft'accd. 
Of those who trod tjie burning waste ! 
All whelm'd, all hush'd ! — none left to bear 
Sad record how they perish'd there ! 
No stone their tale of death shall tell — 
The desert guards its mysteries well; 
And o'er th' unfathom'd sandy deep, 
Where low their nameless relics sleep, 
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, 
Nor know his steps are on the dead. 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 

AN UNFINISHED POEM, 



I. 

Beings of brighter worlds ! that rise at limes 
As phantoms, with ideal beauty fraught. 
In those brief visions of celestial climes, 
Which pass, like sunbeams, o'er the realms of 

thought, 
Dwell ye around us ? — are ye hovering nij^h. 
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air ? 
And in deep solitudes, where human eye. 
Can trace no step, Immortals ! are ye tliers . 
Oh ! who can tell? — what power but D*;atl: alone. 
Can lift the mystic veil that shaikif y'.\c wc. »' j.-i 

known 1 



=rii 



494 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



11. 

But. Eartli hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers 

Of Eden wither'd, when rcveal'd ye shone, 

In all your brightness, 'midst those holy bowers — 

Holy, but not unfading, as your own ! 

While He, the child of that primeval soil, 

With you its paths in higli communion trode, 

His glory yet undimm'd by guilt or toil, 

And beaming in the image of his God. 

And his pure spirit glowing from the sky, 

Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity. 

Ill 

Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays, 
Mingling their tones, from Nature's temple rose, 
When nought but that majestic song of praise 
Broke on the sanctity of night's repose. 
With music since unheard : and man might trace, 
By stream and vale, in deep embow'ring shade, 
Devotion's first and loveliest dwelling-place, 
The footsteps of th' Omnipotent, who made 
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast 
Her consecrating wealth, rejoicing as He pass'd. 

IV. 

Short were those days, and soon, O sons of 

Heaven ! 
Your aspect changed for man; in that dread hour. 
When from his paradise the alien driven. 
Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower. 
Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell. 
With meteor-swords : he saw the living flame. 
And his first cry of misery was — " Farewell !" 
His heart's first anguish, exije : he became 
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children's lot 
Is still for happier lands to pine — and reach them 

not. 



Where now the chosen bovvers that once beheld 
Delight and Love their first bright Sabbath keep ? 
From all its founts tlie worlds of waters swell'd, 
And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep ! 
For He, to whom the elements are slaves. 
In wrath unchain'd the oceans of the cloud, 
And heaved the abyss beneath ; till waves on 

waves 
folded creation in their mighty shroud. 
Then left tiie earth a solitude, o'erspread 
With its own awful wreck — a desert of the dead. 

VI. 

But onward flow'd life's busy course again, 
And rolling ages with them bore away — 
As to be lost amidst the boundless main. 
Rich orient streams their golden sands convey — 
Tiie hallow'd lore of old — the guiding light 
lieft by tradition to the sons of earth. 
And the blest memory of each sacred rite, 
K^own in the region of their father's birth 
When in each breeze around his fair abode 
H'hisper a a seraph's voice, or lived the breath of 
God. 



vn. 

Who hath not seen, vi'hat time the orb of day 
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean's brea.st, 
A thousand clouds, all glovving in his ra)'. 
Catching brief splendour from the purple west ? 
So round tliy parting steps, fair Truth ! awhile 
With borrow'd hues unnumber'd phantoms shone 
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile, 
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own. 
Blending her rites with thine — while yet afar 
Thine eye's last radiance beam'd, a slow-receding 
star. 

VIII. 

Yet still one stream was pure — one sever'd shrine 
Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands. 
And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine. 
Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. 
There still the father to his ciiild bequeathed 
The sacred torch of never-dying flame ; 
There still Devotion's suppliant accents breathed 
The One adored and everlasting Name, 
And angel guests would linger and repose 
Where those primeval tents amid their palm-treea 
rose. 

IX. 

But far o'er earth the apostate wanderers bore 
Their alien rites : — for them, by fcunt or shade, 
Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore, 
In tljrilling whispers to the sou! convey'd 
High inspiration : yet in every clime. 
Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought 
With beings, in their essence more sublime, 
To hold communion of mysterious thought ; 
On some dread power in trembling hope to lean, 
And hear in every wind the accents of th' Unseen. 



Yes ! we have need to bid our hopes repose 
On some protecting influence; here confined, 
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes, 
Earth is too narrow for th' immortal mind. 
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day. 
As exiles panting for their native coast. 
Yet lured by every wild-flower from their wav. 
And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross'd 
Death hovers round us — in the zephyr's sigh, 
As in the storm, he comes — and lo ! Etsrnity ! 

XL 

As one left lonely on the desert sands 
Of burning Afric, where, without a guide, 
He gazes as the pathless waste expands — 
Around, beyond, interminably wide ; 
While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, 
Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky. 
Or suns of blasting light perchance illume 
The glistening Serab* which illudes his eye ; 
Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown. 
Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Un. 
known. 



* Serab, Mirago. 



i 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4!>5 



XIL 

(lis tltoiiglits explored the piist — and where were 

thoy, 
The chiefs of men, tlie mighty ones g-onc by ? 
He turn'd — :i boundless void bel'ore iani lay, 
Wrapp'd in the shadows of futurity. 
IIow knew the child of Nature that tlie fiame 
ile felt within him, struggling to ascend, 
Should perish not with that terrestrial frame 
Doom'd witli the earth on which it moved, to 

blend ? 
How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed, 
If 't were a Father's love or Tyrant's wrath de- 
creed '( 

XIIL 
Oh ! marvel not, if tlien he sought to trace 
In all sublimities of sight and sound. 
In rushing winds that wander through all space 
Or 'midst deep woods, with holy gloom enibrown'd, 
Tlie oracles of Fate ! or if the train 
Of floating forms, that throng the world of sleep. 
And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer's brain 
\\'hen mortal voices rest in stillness deep. 
Were deem'd mysterious revelations, sent 
From viewless powers, the lords of each dread 
element. 

XIV. 
Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time, 
Clothed with a deeper power ? — earth's wander- 
ing race. 
Exploring realms of solitude sublime. 
Not as w;e see, beheld her awful face ! 
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met 
Their searching eyes; unpeopled kingdoms lay 
In savage pomp before tliem — all was yet 
Silent and vast, but not as in decay. 
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, 
Look'd o'er a thousand shores, untrodden, voice- 
less, lone. 

XV. 
The forests in their dark luxuriance waved, 
With all their swell of strange jEolian sound ; 
The fearful deep, sole region ne'er enslaved. 
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round ; 
Then, brooding o'er the images, imprest 
By forms of grandeur thronging on liis eye, 
And faint traditions, guarded in his breast, 
'Midst dim remembrances of infancy, 
Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams. 
Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, 
and streams. 

XVI. 
Then bled the victim — then in every shade 
Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine; 
Fear bovv'd before the phantoms she portray'd, 
And Nature teein'd with many a mystic sign. 
Meteors, and storms, and thunders ! ye whose 

course 
E'en yet is awful to th' enlighten'd eye. 
As, wildly rpshing from your secret source, 
Vour fioundirsg chariot sweeps the realms on high, 
rUtr. o'er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast. 
And the widr nations gazed, and trembled us ye 
pass'd. 



XVIL 

But you, ye stars! in distant glory burning, 
Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky I 
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning, 
Would pierce the secrets of infinity — 
To you the heart, bereft of other light. 
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains. 
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, 
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns, 
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race 
Of some unnumber'd orbs, that light the depths 
of space. 

XVIIL 

Shine on ! and brightly plead for erring thought, 
Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored 
The wide creation, and beholding nought 
Like your eternal beauty, then adored 
Its living splendours; deeming them inform'd 
By natures temper'd with a holier fire — 
Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm'd, 
Who to the source of spirit might aspire. 
And mortal prayers benignantly convey 
To some presiding Power, more awful far than 
thsy. 

XIX. 

Guides o'er the desert and the deep ! to you 
The seaman turn'd, rejoicing at the helm. 
When from the regions of empyreal blue 
Ye pour'd soft radiance o'er the ocean-realm ; 
To you the dweller of the plains address'd 
Vain prayers, that called the clouds and dew3 

your own ; 
To you the shepherd, on the mountain's crest, 
Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone, 
As earth would light up all her hills, to vie 
Willi your immortal host, and image back the sky. 

XX. 

Hail to the queen of heaven ! her silvery crown 
Serenely wearing, o'er her high domain 
She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down 
As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. 
Earth should be hush'd in slumber — but the night 
Calls forth her worshippers; the feast is spread, 
On hoary Lebanon's umbrageous height 
The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed 
To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades 
Faintly as Nature's light the 'wilder'd soul pe* 
vades. 

XXL 

But when tliine orb, all earth's rich hues reslonn|;, 
Came forth, O sun ! in majesty supreme. 
Still from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring' 
Beauty and life in each tiiumphant beam, 
Tlirough thine own east what joyous rites pre- 

vail'd ! 
What choral songs re-echo'd ! while thy fire 
Shone o'er its thousand altars, and exhaled 
The precious incense of each odorous pyre. 
F-sap'd with the richest balms of spicy vales, 
And aromatic woods that B«uit the Arabian ga.cn 



49 G 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



XXII. 

Yet not with Saba's fragrant wealth alone, 
Balsam and myrrh, tlie votive pile was strew'd ; 
For the dark children of the burning zone 
Drew frenzy from thy fervours, and bedew'd 
With their own blood thy shrine ; while that wild 

scene, 
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view'd, 
And, though with glory mantled, and serene 
In his own fulness of beatitude, 
Yet mourn'd for those whose spirits from thy ray 
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day, 

XXIII. 

But earth had deeper stains : ethereal powers ! 
Benignant seraphs ! wont to leave the skies. 
And hold high converse, 'midst his native bowers, 
With the once glorious son of Paradise, 
Look'd ye from heaven in sadness ? were your 

strains 
Of choral praise suspended in dismay. 
When the polluted shrine of Syria's plains. 
With clouds of incense dimm'd the blaze of day? 
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes, 
While demons iiail'd the pomp of human sacri- 
fice? 

XXIV. 

And well the powers of evil might rejoice. 
When rose from Tophel's vale tlie exulting cry, 
And, deaf to nature's supplicating voice, 
Tlie frantic mother bore her child to die ! 
Around her vainly clung his feeble liands 
With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway, 
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands. 
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. 
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale! 
Well may tiie drum's loud peal o'erpower an in- 
fant's wail ! 

XXV. 

A voice of sorrow ! not from thence it rose ; 
'Twas not the childless mother — Syrian maids. 
Where with red wave the mountain streamlet 

flows. 
Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. 
With urge and plaint the cedar-groves resound, 
f^ach rock's deep echo for Adnnis mourns : 
Weep for the dead ! — away ! the lost is found. 
To life and love the buried god returns ! 
Tlien wakes the timbrel — then the forests ring. 
And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze's 

wing I 

XXVI. 

But fill'd with holier j-oy the Persian stood, 
fti silent reverence, on the mountain's brow, 
At early dayspiing, while the expanding flood 
Of radiance burst around, above, below — 
Bright, boundless as eternity ; he gazed 
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o'erflow'd 
In worship of th.' Invisible, and praised 
5o thee, O Sun! the symbol and abode 



Of life, and power, and excellence, the throne 
Where dvi'elt the Unapproach'd, resplendentlj? 
alone.* 

XXVII. 

What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave 

Mysterious sanctity to things which wear 

Th' Eternal's impress? — if the living wave. 

The circling heavens, the free and boundless air — 

If the pure founts of everlasting flame. 

Deep in his country's hallow'd vales enshrined, 

And the bright stars, maintain'd a silent claim 

To love and homage from his awe-struck mind? 

Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream 

Of uncreated Power, far, far o'er these supreme. 

XXVIII. 

And with that faith was conquest. He whose 

name 
To Judah's harp of prophecy had rung ; 
He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame 
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung. 
He came, the victor Cyrus ! — as he pass'd 
Tlirones to his footstep rock'd, and monarchs lay 
Suppliant and clothed with dust ; while nations 

cast 
Their ancient idols down before his way. 
Who, in majestic march, from shore to shore. 
The quenchless flame revered by Persia's chil- 

dren bore. 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM THE 
" TASSO" OF GOETHKf 



The dramatic poem of " Tasso," though pre- 
senting no changeful pageants of many-coloured 
life — no combination of stirring incidents, nor 
conflict of tempestuous passions — is yet rich in 
interest for those who find — 

"The still small music of humanity 
***** of ample power 
To chasten and subdue." 

It is a picture of the struggle between elements 
which never can assimilate — powers whose do- 
minion is over spheres essentially adverse ; be- 
tween the spirit of poetry and the spirit of the 
world. Why is it that this collision is almost 



* At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the 
following stanza was here inserted : — 

' Nor rose the Magian's hymn, sublimely swelling 

In full-toned homage to the source of flame, 

From fabric rear'd by man — the goraeous dv/elling 

Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame; 

He reai'd no temple, bade no walls contai i 

The breath of incense, or the voice of prayei > 

But made the boundless universe his fane, 

Tlie rocks his altar-stone, adoring there 

The Being whose Omnipotence pervades 

All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.' 

t The first of a series of papers, to be entitled " German 
Studies," which tlie Author had proposed to herse.i lo write. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



497 



invariably fatal to the g^entler and the holier na- 
ture ? Some muster-niinds have, indeed, winged 
tlitir way through th? tumults of crowded life, 
like the sea-bird cleaviuir the storm from which its 
pinions come forth unstained ; but there needs a 
celestial panoply, with which few indeed are 
gifted, to bear the heirs of genius not only un- 
wounded, l)at unsoiled, through the battle ; and 
too frequently the result of the poet's lingering 
afar iiom his better home has been mental degra- 
dation and untimely death. Let us not be under- 
stood as requiriiig for his well-being an absolute 
seclusion from the world and its interests, ths 
nature, if the abiding-place of the true light be 
indeed within him, is endowed above all others 
with the tenderest and most widely-embracing 
sympathies. Not alone from " the things of the 
everlasting hills," from the storms or the silence 
of midnight skies, will he seek the grandeur and 
the beauty which have their central residence in 
a far more majestic temple. Mountains, and 
rivers, and mighty woods, the cathedrals of na- 
ture — these will have their part in his pictures ; 
but their colouring and shadows will not be 
wholly the gift of rising or departing suns, nor of 
the night with all her stars; it will be a varying 
suffusion from the life within, from the glovs'ing 
clouds of thought and feeling, which mantle with 
their changeful drapery all external creation. 

" We receive but what we give, 

And in our life alone does naiuie live." 

Let the poet bear into the recesses of vi^oods and 
shadowy hills a heart full-fraught with the sym- 
pathies which will have been fostered by inter- 
course with his kind — a memory covered with tlie 
secret inscriptions vv'hich joy and sorrow could 
not fail indelibly to write — then will the voice of 
every stream respond to him in tones of gladness 
or melancholy, accordant with those of his own 
soul; and he himself, by the might of feelings 
intensely human, may breathe the living spirit of 
the oracle into the resounding cavern or the wliis- 
pering oak. We thus admit it essential to his 
high office, that the chambers of imagery in tlie 
heart of tlie poet must be filled with materi ils 
moulded from the sorrows, the affections, the fiery 
triads, and immortal longings of the human soul. 
Where love, and faith, and anguish, meet and 
contend; whore the tones of prayer are wrung 
from the suffering spirit — there lie his veins of' 
treasure; there are the sweet waters reader to flow 
from the stricken rock. But he will not seek them 
through the gaudy and hurrying masque of arti- 
ficial life; he will not be the fettered Samson to 
make sport for the sons and daughters of fashion. 
Whilst he shuns no brotherly communion with 
his kind, he will ever reserve to his nature the 
oower of se//-communion, silent hours for — 

" The harvest of the quiet eye 
That bruuds anci sleeps on his own heart," 

and Inviolate retreats in the depths of his being — 
foimlaiiis lone and still, upon which only the eye 
of heaven shines down in its hallowed serenity. 
Bo hiive those who make us " heirs of truth and 
44* 



freedom by immortal lays," ever preserved the 
calm intellectual ether in which they live and 
move IVom tlie taint of worldly inlection; and it 
appears the object of Goethe, in tlie work before 
us, to make the gifted spirit sadder and wiser by 
the contemplation of one, which, having sold its 
birthright and stooped from its " privacy of glo- 
rious light," is forced into perpetual contact with 
things essentially of the earth earthy. Dante has 
spoken of what the Italian poets must have 
learned but too feelingly under tlitir protteting 
princes — the bitter taste of another's bread, the 
weary steps by which the stairs of anotlier's house 
are ascend-ed ; but it is suffering of a more spiritual 
nature wliich is here portrayed. Would that the 
courtly patronage, at the shrine of vi'hich the Ita- 
lian muse has so often waved her censer, had im- 
posed no severer tasks upon its votaries than the 
fashioning of the snow statue which it required 
from the genius of Michael Angelo ! The story 
of Tasso is fraught with yet deeper meaning, 
though it is not from the period of his most ago- 
nizing trials that the materials of Goethe's work 
are drawn. The poet is here introduced to us as 
a youth at the court of Ferrara ; visionary, enthu- 
siastic, keenly alive to the splendour of the gor- 
geous world around him, throwing himself pas- 
sionately upon the current of every newly-excited 
feeling; a creature of sudden lights and shadows, 
of restless strivings after ideal perfection, of ex- 
ultations and of agonies. Why is it that the 
being thus exhibited as endowed with all these 
trembling capacities for joy and pain — with noble 
aspirations and fervid eloquence, fails to excite a 
more reverential interest, a more tender admira- 
tion ? He is wanting in dignity, in the sustain, 
ing consciousness of his own high mission ; he 
has no city of refuge within himself", and thus — 

" Every little living nerve, 
That from bitter words doth swerve," 

has the power to shake his whole soul from its 
pride of place. He is thus borne down by the 
cold triumphant worldliness of the courtier An- 
tonio, from the collision with whom, and the 
mistaken endeavour of Tasso's friends to recon- 
cile natures dissimilar as the sylph and gnome of 
fanciful creations, the conflicting elements of the 
piece are chiefly derived. There are impressive 
lessons to be drawn from the contemplation of 
these scenes, though, perhaps, it is not quite thu3 
that we could have wished him delineated who 
" poured liis spirit over Palestine ;" and it is oc 
casionally almost loo painfid to behold the high 
minded Tasso, recognised by his country as su 
perior with Ihc sword and the pen to all men, 
struggling in so ignoble an arena, and finallj' 
overpowered by sn unworthy an antiigonist. This 
world is indeed "too much with us," and but too 
powerful is often its withering breath upon the 
ethereal natures of love, devotion, and enthusiasnj, 
which, in other regions — 

" Miiy bear bright golden flowers, but not in this soil '' 

Yet who has not known victorious moments, in 
which the lightly-armed genii of ridicule have 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



quailed! — the conventional forms of life have 
shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel 
touch of some generous feeling-, some high and 
overshadowing passion suddenly aroused from the 
inmost recesses of the folded soul, and striking 
(he electric chain vs^hich mysteriously connects 
all humanity ? VVe could iiave wished that some 
such thrilling moment had been iiere introduced 
by the mighty master of Germany ; something to 
relieve the too continuous impression of inherent 
weakness in the cause of the vanquished ; some- 
thing of a transmuting power in the soul of Tas- 
so, to glorify the clouds which accumulate around 
it — to turn them into " contingencies of pomp" 
by the intcrpenetration of its own celestial light. 
Yet we approach with reverence the work of a 
noble hand ; and, whilst entering upon our task 
of translation, we acknowledge, in humility, the 
feebleness of all endeavour to pour into the vase 
of another language the exquisitely subtle spirit 
of Goethe's poetry — to transplant and naturalize 
the delicate felicities of thought and expression 
by whicli this piece is so eminently distinguished. 
The visionary rapture which taUes possession 
of Tasso upon being crowned with laurel by the 
Princess Leonora d'Este, the object of an affection 
which the youthful poet has scarcely yet acknow- 
ledged to himself, is thus portrayed in one of the 
earlier scenes : — 

" Let me then bear the burden of my bliss 

To some deep grove, that oft hath veil'd my grief; 

There let me roam in solitude : no eye 

Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. 

And if some shining fountain suddenly 

On its clear mirror to my sight should give 

The form of one who, strangely, brightly crown'd. 

Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven 

As it streams down through rocks and parted 

trees, 
Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave 
I see Elysium pictured! 1 will ask, 
W/w is the bless'd departed one? — the youth 
From long-past ages with his glorious wreath? 
Who shall reveal his name? — who speak his 

worth ? 
Oh ! that another and another there 
Might press, with him to hold bright communing! 
Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs 
Of the old time on that pure fountain-side 
For evermore inseparably link'd 
As they were link'd in life ! Not steel to steel 
Is bound more closely by the magnet's power 
Than the same striving after lofty things 
Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer's life 
Was self-forgetfulness : he pour'd it forth, 
One rich libation to another's fame ; 
And Alexander through th' Elysian grove 
To seek Achilles and liis poet flies. 
Might I behold their meeting !" 

But he is a reed shaken with the wind. An- 
tonio reaches the Court of Ferrara at this crisis, 
in all the importance of a successful negotiation 
witli ine Vatican He strikes down the wing of 



the poet's delicate imagination with the arrows 
of a careless irony ; and Tasso is for a time com 
pletely dazzled and overpowered by the worldly 
science of the skilful diplomatist. The deepei 
wisdom of his own simplicity is yet veiled from 
his eyes. Life seems to pass before him, as poi 
trayed by the discourse of Antonio, like a mighty 
triumphal procession, in the exulting movements 
and clarion sounds of which he alone has no 
share; and, at last, the forms of beauty peopling 
his own spiritual world, seem to dissolve into 
clouds, even into faint shadows of clouds, belbre 
the strong glare of the external world, leaving his 
imagination as a desolate house, whence light and 
music have departed. He tiius pours forth, when 
alone with the Princess Leonora, the impressions 
produced upon him by Antonio's descriptions : — 

"They still disturb my heart — 
Still do they crowd my soul tumultuously — • 
The troubling images of that vast world. 
Which — living, restless, fearful as it is — ■ 
Yet, at the bidding of one master-mind, 
E'en as commanded by a demi-god, 
Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, 
Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in 
The strong words of the experienced ; but, alas ! 
The more I listen'd, still the more I sank 
In mine own eyes; I seem'd to die away 
As into some faint echo of the rocks — 
A shadowy sound — a nothing 1" 

There is something of a very touching beauty 
in the character of the Princess Leonora d'Este. 
She does not, indeed, resemble some of the lovely 
beings delineated by Shakspeare — the females, 
" graceful without design, and unforesceing," in 
whom, even under the pressure of heaviest ca- 
lamity, it is easy to discern the existence of the 
sunny and gladsome nature which would spring 
up vi'ith fawn-like buoyancy, were but the crush- 
ing weight withdrawn. The spirit of Leonora 
has been at once elevated and subdued by early 
trial : high thoughts, like messengers from heaven, 
have been its visitnnts in the solitude of the sick- 
chamber ; and looking upon life and creation, as 
it were, through the softening veil of remembered 
suffering, it has settled into such majestic loveli- 
ness as the Italian painters delight to shadow forth 
on the calm brow of their Madonna. Its very 
tenderness is self-resignation ; its inner existence 
serene yet sad — "a being breathing thoughtful 
breath." She is worshipped by the poet as his 
tutelary angel, and her secret affection for him 
might almost become that character. It has all 
the deep devotedness of a woman's heart, with 
the still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no 
part in the passionate dreams of earthly happiness. 
She feels his genius with a reverential appreci- 
ation ; she watches over it with a religious ten 
derness, for ever interposing to screen its unfold- 
ing powers from every ruder breath. She rejoices 
in his presence as a flower filling its cup with 
gladness from the morning light: yet, preferring 
his wellbeing to all earthly things, she would 



MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. 



4'JD 



inf-f'Kly (ifFer up, for tlie knowledge of his distant 
Happiness, even the fulness of that only and un- 
uttorablo joy. A doej) feeling of woman's lot on 
sarth — the lot of endurance and of saci'ifice — 
seems ever present to her soul, and speaks cl)a- 
racleristiealiy in these lines, witli vvhicli she re- 
plies to a wish of Tasso's for tlie return of the 
'golden age : — 

"When carlli has men to reverence female /jearts, 
To know the treasure of rich truth and love. 
Set deep within a higli-soul'd woman's breast; 
When the remembrance of our summer prime 
Keeps brightly in man's heart a holy place ; 
When tlie keen glance that pierces through so 

mucli 
Looks also tenderly through that dim veil 
By time or sickness hung round drooping forms; 
When the possession, stilling every wish, 
Draws not desire away to other wealth — 
A brighter dayspring then for us may dawn. 
Then may we solemnize our golden age." 

A character thus meditative, affectionate, and 
«elf-secluding, would naturally be peculiarly sen- 
sitive to the secret intiuiations of coming sorrow : 
forebodings of evil arise in her mind from the 
antipathy so apparent between Tasso and Anto- 
nio ; and, after learning that the cold keen irony 
of the latter has irritated the poet almost to frenzy, 
she thus, to her friend Leonora de Sanvitale, re- 
proaches herself for not having listened to the 
monitory whispers of her soul ;■ — 

" Alas ! that we so slowly learn to heed 
The secret signs and omens of the breast! 
An oracle speaks low within our hearts. 
Low, still, yet clear, its prophet voice forewarns 
What to pursue, what shun. 



Yes, ray whole soul misgave me silently 
When he and Tasso met." 

She admits to her friend the necessity for his 
departure from Ferrara ; but thus reverts, with 
fondlj clinging remembrance, to the time when 
he first became known to her : — 

"Oh ! mark'd and singled was the hour when first 
He met mine eye I — Sickness and grief just then 
Had pass'd away ; from long, long suffering freed, 
I lifted up my brow, and silently 
Gazed upon life again. — The sunny day. 
The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light 
Of gladness round me, and my freshen'd heart 
Drank the rich healing balm of hope once more. 
Then onward, through the glowing world I dared 
To send my glance, and many a liind bright shape 
There bcckon'd from afar. Then first the youth, 
Led by a sister's hand, before me stood. 
And my soul clung to him e'en then, O friend ! 
To cling for evermore. 

Leo. Lament it not, 

My princess I — to have known heaven's gifted 
ones 



Is to have gather'd into the full soul 
Inalienable wealth ! 

Prill. Oh ! previous things — 

The richly graced, the exquisite, are tilings 
To fear, to love with trembling ! — beautitul 
Is the pure ftame when on thy hearth it shines, 
When in the fiiendly torch it gives thee light. 
How gracious and how calm! — but, once un- 

ciiain'd, 
Lo ! ruin sweeps along its fatal path !" 

She then announces her determination to make 
the sacrifice of his society, in which alone her 
being seems to find its full completion. 

" Alas ! dear friend, my soul indeed is fix'd— 
Let him depart I — yet cannot I but feel 
Even now the sadness of long days to come ; 
The cold void lelt me by a lost delight ! 
No more shall sunrise from my opening eye 
Chase his bright image glorified in dreams ; 
Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir 
With joyous flutterings my scarcc-waken'd soul 
And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers, 
Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look 
Shiill seek his form ! How blissful was the thought 
With him to share each golden evening's peace! 
How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read 
His spirit yet more deeply I Day by day 
How my own being, tuned to happiness, 
Gave forth a voice of finer harmony ! — 
Now is the twilight gloom around me fallen: 
The festal day, the sun's magnificence. 
All riches of this many-colour'd world. 
What are they now ? — dim, soulless, desolate ! 
Veil'd in the cloud that sinks upon my heart. — 
Once was each day a life ! — each care was mute, 
Even the low boding hush'd within the soul, 
And the smooth waters of a gliding stream, 
Without the rudder's aid, bore lightly on 
Our fairy bark of joy !" 

^ 

Her companion endeavours, but in vain, to con- 

sole her. 

Leon. If the kind words of friendship cannot 
soothe. 
The still sweet influences of this fair world 
Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace. 

Prin. Yes, beautiful it is I the glowing world! 
So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro, 
In all its paths, and ever, ever seems 
One step, hul one — removed — till our fond thirst 
For the still fading fountain, step by step. 
Lures to the grave ! — so seldom do we find 
What seem'd by Nature moulded for our love. 
And for our bliss endow'd — or, if we find, 
So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold ! 
That which once freely made itself our own 
Bursts from us! — that which eagerly we prcss'd 
Wc coldly loose ! A treasure may be ours, 
Only wc know it not, or know, perchance, 
Unconscious of its worth !" 

But the dark clouds are gathering within iho 
spirit of Tasso itself} and the devoted aess cu alVfjo. 



500 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Jon would in vain avert their lightnings by the 
sacrifice of all its own pure enjoyments. In the 
solitary confinement to which the Duke has sen- 
tenced him, as a punishment for h\3 duel with 
Antonio, his jealous imagination, like that of the 
self-torturing Rousseau, pictures the whole world 
as arrayed in one conspiracy against him, and he 
doubts even of her truth and gentleness whose 
watching thoughts are all for his welfare. The 
following passages affeclingly murk the progress 
of the dark despondency wliich finally overwhelms 
him, though tlie concluding lines of the last are 
brightened by a ray of those immortal hopes, the 
liglit of vvliicj] we could have desired to recognise 
more frequently in this deeply thoughtful work : — 

PRESENTIMENT OF HIS RUIN. 

" Alas ! too well I feel, too true a voice 
Witiiin me whispers, that the Mighty Power 
Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy, 
Bears up tlie healtliful spirit, v/ill but cast 

Mine to the earth — will rend me utterly ! 

1 must away 1" 

ON A friend's declaring HERSELF UNABLE TO 
RECOGNISE HIM. 

"Rightly thou speak'st — I am myself no more; 
And yet in worth not less than I have been. 
Seems this a dark, strange riddle ? Yet, 'tis none! 
The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night, 
Thine eye, thy spirit irresistibly 
Wiiming with beams of love — mark! how it floats 
Through the day's glare, a pale and powerless 

cloud ! 
I am o'ercome by the full blaze of noon ; 
Ye know me, and I know myself no more !" 

ON BEING ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COMPOSITION. 

"Vainly, too vainly, 'gainst the power I strive, 
Which, night and day, comes rushing through 

my soul ! 
Without that pouring forth of thought and song 
My life is life no more ! 
Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on, 
When hourly, with the labour'd line, he draws 
Nearer to death ? — in vain I — the costly web 
Must from his inmost being still be wrought. 
Till lie lies wrapp'd in his consummate shroud. 
Oh I that a gracious God to us may give 
The lot of that bicss'd worm ! — to spread free 

wings 
And burst exultingly on brighter life, 
In a new realm of sunshine !" 

He is at last leleased, and admitted into the 
piesence of the Princess Leonora, to take his 
leave of her before commencing a distant journey. 
Notwithstanding his previous doubts of her inter- 
eat in him, he is overcome by the pitying tender, 
lies* of her manner, and breaks into a strain of 
passionate gratitude and enthusiasm : — 

" Thou art the same pure angel, as when first 
T)iy r'j.diantc cross'd my path. Forgive, forgive, 
'i for a moment, in hiS blind despair 



The mortal's troubled glance hath read thee 

wrong ! 
Once more he knows thee ! His expanding soul 
Flows forth to worship thee for evermore. 
And his fiili heart dissolves in tenderness : 



Is it false light which draws me on to thee ? * 
Is it delirium ? — Is it thought inspired. 
And grasping first high truth divinely clear? 
Yes ! 'tis even so — the feeling which alone 
Can make me bless'd on earth i" 

The wildness of his ecstasy at last terrifies his 
gentle protectress from him ; he is forsaken by 
all as a being lost in hopeless delusion, and being 
left alone to the insulting pity of Antonio, his 
strength of heart is utterly subdued; he passion, 
ately bewails his weakness, and even casts down 
his spirit almost in wondering admiration before 
the calm self-collectedness of his enemy, who 
himself seems at last almost melted by the ex. 
tremity of tlie poet's desolation, as thus poured 
forth :— 

" Can I then image no high-hearted man 
Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass'd mine 

own. 
That my vex'd soul might win sustaining power 
From thoughts of him? — I cannot! — all is lost! 
One thing alone remains — one mournful boon — 
Nature on us, her suffering children, showers 
The gift of tears^ — the impassion'd cry of griefj 
When man can bear no more ; — and with viy woe, 
With mine above all others, hath been link'd 
Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour 
All, all its fulness forth ! To me a God 
Hath given strong utterance for mine agony, 
When others, in their deep despair, are mute! 

***** 

Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man ! 
I seem before thee as the troubled wave : 
But oh 1 be thoughtful ! — in thy lofty strength 
Exult thou not! By nature's might alike 
That rock was fix'd, that quivering wave waa 

made 
The sensitive of storm ! She sends her blasts, — 
The living water flic's — it quakes avid swells, 
And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam; 
Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back 
111 calm transparence — once the gentle stars 
Lay still upon its undulating breast! 
Now the sweet peace is gone — the glory now 
Departed from the wave ! I know myself 
No more in these dark perils, and no more 
I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark 
Is wrench'd the rudder, and through all its frame 
The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet 
The rocking earth gives way — to thee I cling — 
I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despair 
So dotli the struggling sailor clasp the rock 
Whereon he perishes !" 

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, 
the catastrophe being that of the spirit aal wreck 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



50; 



^itllltl, unmingled with the terrors drawn from 
OJtward circtimstniiccs and cluing-e. The niajes- 
lic lines in wliich Byron h;is embodied the thougiits 
of the captive Tasso, will form a fine contrast 
and relief to the music of despair with which 
Goethe's work is closed ; — 

" All this hatli somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair, 

For I have battled with mine ag-ony. 

And made me wings wherewith to overfly 

I'l'.e narrow circus of my dungeon wall ; 

And freed the holy sepulchre from thrall; 

And revelfd among- men and things divine, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honour of the sacred war for Him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven ; 

For Hfc hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb, 

Tliat through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I have cmploy'd my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored." 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN;* 

OR, 

VALOUR AND PATRIOTISM. 



" His sword the brave man draws, 

And asks no omen but his country's cause." — Pope. 



Too long have Tyranny and Power combined. 
To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind; 
Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe. 
And Rapine's svi-ord has wasted half the globe ! 
O'er Europe's cultured realms, and climes afar. 
Triumphant Gaul has pour'd the tide of war : 
To her fair Austria veil'd the standard bright ; 
Ausonia's lovely plains have own'd her might; 
While Prussia's eagle, never taught to yield, 
Forsook her tovv'ring height on Jena's field ! 

Oh ! gallant Frederic ! could thy parted shade 
Have seen thy country vanquish'd and betray'd ; 
How had thy soul indignant mourn'd her shame. 
Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish'd fame ! 
When Valour wept lamented Brunswick's doom. 
And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb; 
When Prussia, drooping o'er her hero's grave. 
Invoked his spirit to descend and save; 
Tlicn set her glories — then expired her sun. 
And fraud achieved e'en more than conquest won! 

O'er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty 
gay, 
Has desolation spread her ample sway ; 
Thy blast, oh Ruin ! on tremendous wings, 
Has proudly swept o'er empires, nations, kings ! 
Thus the wild hurricane's impetuous force. 
With dark destruction marks its whelming course. 



* Written at the age of fourteen. 



Despoils the woodland's pomp, the bk'oming 

plain, 
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train ! 

Rise, Freedom, rise ! and, breaking from thy 
trance, 
Wave the dread banner, seize the glitf'ring lance! 
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause, 
And call thy champions to defend thy laws! 
How long shall tyrant power her throne maintain? 
How long shall despots and usurpers reign? 
Is honour's lofty soul for ever fled ? 
Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead? 
Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell, 
No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell? 
Yes, Freedom, yes ! thy sons, a noble band, 
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand ; 
Once more, 'tis thine, invincible, to wield 
The beamy spear and adamantine shield! 
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows, 
Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes ; 
Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer'd fires. 
Thy look sublime the warrior's heart inspires; 
And, while to guard thy standard and thy right, 
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight, 
Lo ! Britain's gen'rous host their aid supply, 
Resolved for thee to triumph or to die ! 
And Glory smiles to see Iberia's name 
Enroll'd with Albion's in the book of fame ! 

Illustrious names! still, still united beam. 
Be still the hero's boast, the poet's theme : 
So, when two radiant gems together shine. 
And in one wreath their lucid light combine ; 
Each, as it sparkles with transcendent rays. 
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze. 

Descend, oh Genius ! from thy orb descend ! 
Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend . 
As Memnon's harp (so ancient fables say) 
With sweet vibration meets the morning ray. 
So let the chords thy heavenly presence own. 
And swell a louder note, a nobler tone; 
Call from the sun, her burning throne on high, 
The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye ; 
Steal from the source of day empyreal fire. 
And breathe the soul of rapture o'er the lyre ! 

Hail, Albion ! hail, thou land of freedom's birth' 
Pride of the main, and Phcenix of the earth ! 
Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell, 
Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel ! 
Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave, 
Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave; 
In classic elegance, and arts divine. 
To rival Athens' fairest palm is thine; 
For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly. 
And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky. 
Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime, 
To other worlds beyond the sphere of time! 
Hail, Albion, hail I to thee has fate denied 
Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan's pride. 
The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast. 
And all the wealth of Montezuma's coast : 
For thee no Parian marbles brightlv shin-o^ 
No glowing suns mature the bli'shing \iiie. 



No light Arabian gales their wings expand, 
To waft Sabaeaa incense o'er tiie land ; 
No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills, 
No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils ; 
Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows, 
And far from thee the scented cassia blows : 
Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne, 
■ Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own; 
From Lapland's shore to Alric's fervid reign, 
She bids thy ensigns float above the main ; 
Unfurls her streamers to the fuv'ring gale. 
And shows to other worlds her daring sail : 
Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee. 
Queen of the trident ! empress of the sea ! 

For this thy noble sons have spread alarms, 
And bade the zones resound with Britain's arms ! 
Calpe's proud rock, and Syria's palmy shore. 
Have heard and trembled at their battle's roar; 
The sacred waves of fertilizing Nile 
Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle; 
For this, for this, the Saniiel-blast of war 
Has roll'd o'er Vincent's cape and Trafalgar ! 
Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder's sound. 
And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crown'd ; 
Blest if their perils and their blood could gain, 
To grace thy hand — the sceptre of the main ! 
The milder emblems of the virtue's calm, 
The poet's verdant bay, the sage's palm ; 
These in thy laurel's' blooming foliage twine. 
And round thy brows a deathless wreath combine: 
Not Mincio's banks, nor Meles' classic tide. 
Are hallow'd more than Avon's haunted side; 
Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme, 
Thantpure Ilissus, or than Tiber's stream. 

Bright in the annals of th' impartial page, 
Britannia's heroes live from age to age ! 
From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race. 
Her painted natives, foremost in the chase. 
Free from all cares for luxury or gain. 
Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain ; 
To these Augustan days, when social arts 
Refine and meliorate her manly hearts ; 
From doubtful Arthur, hero of romance. 
King of the circled board, the spear, the lance; 
7"o those whose recent trophies grace her shield. 
The gallant victors of Vimiera's field ; 
Still have her warriors borne th' unfading crown. 
And made the British flag the ensign of renown. 

Spirit of Alfred ! patriot soul sublime ! 
Thou morning-star of error's darkest time ! 
Prince of the lion-heart ! whose arm in fight, 
On Syria's plains repell'd Saladin's might! 
EiuvARD ! for bright heroic deeds revered, 
By Cressy's fime to Britain still endear'd ! 
Triumphant Henry! thou, whose valour proud, 
I'he lofty plume of crested Gallia bow'd ! 
Look down, look down, exalted shades ! and view 
Your Albion still to freedom's banner true ! 
Deliola the land, ennobled by your fame. 
Supreme m glory, and of spotless name ; 
And, as the pyramid indignant rears 
Its awiu) head, and mockb the waste of years ; 



See her secure in pride of virtue tower, 
While prostrate nations kiss tiie rod cf power J 

Lo ! where her pennons, waving hi^h rspire, 
Bold victory hovers near, "with eyes of five!" 
While Lusitania hails, with just applrusf). 
The brave defenders of her injured cause; 
Bids the full song, the note of triumph ris-t,. 
And swells th' exulting paean to the skiea i 

And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell. 
Breathed to their cherish'd r-^alms a sad farewell ! 
Who, as the vessel bore them o'er the tide, 
Still fondly linger'd on its deck, and sigh'd ; 
Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, 
And the blue distance melted into light; 
The Royal exiles, forced by Gaiua's hate 
To fly for refuge in a foreign state .• 
They, soon returning o'er the vt^estern main, 
Ere long may view their clime beloved again 
And, as the blazing pillar led the host 
Of faithful Israel, o'er the desert coast 
So may Britannia guide the noble band. 
O'er the wild ocean, to their native land. 
Oh, glorious isle ! — oh, sov'reign of the waves 
Thine are the sons who " never will be slaves I" 
See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, 
And rend the laurels of insulting France; 
To brave Castile their potent aid supply. 
And wave, O Freedom ! wave thy sword on high ! 

Is there no bard of heavenly power possess'^ 
To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast? 
Like Shakspeare o'er the secret mind to sway. 
And call each wayward passion to obey? 
Is there no bard, imbued with hallow'd fire. 
To wake the chords of Ossian's magic lyre ; 
Whose numbers, breathing all his flame divine, 
The patriot's name to ages might consign ? 
Rise I Inspiration ! rise, be this thy theme, 
And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam ! 

Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring. 
And sweep with rapture's hand the trembling 

string ! 
Could she the bosom energies control. 
And pour impassion'd fervour o'er the soul ! 
Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given, 
Brought by a cherub from th' empyrean heaven! 
Ah, fruitless wish ! ah, prayer preterr'd in vam. 
For her — the humblest of the woodland train ; 
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise 
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise ! 

Iberian bands ! whose noble ardour glows 
To pour confusion on oppressive foes ; 
Intrepid spirits, h-nil ! 'tis yours to feel 
The hero's fire, the freeman's godlike zeal ! 
Not to secure dominion's boundless reign. 
Ye wave the flag of conquest o'er the slain; 
No cruel rapine leads you to the war. 
Nor mad ambition, whirl'd in crimson car, 
No, brave Castilians ! yours a nobler end. 
Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend f 
For these, lor these, your valiant legions rear 
The floating standard, and the lofty spear ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



503 



The fearless lover wields the conquering^ sword, 
Fired by the image of the maid adored ! 
His best beloved, his fondest tics, to aid, 
I'hc father's liand unshcaths the glitfring blade ! 
For each, for all, for ev'ry saercd right. 
The daring patriot mingles in the fight! 
And e'en if love or fricndsliip fiiil to warm. 
His country's name alone can nerve his dauntless 
arm 1 

He bleeds ! he falls ! his death-bed is the field ! 
His dirge the trumpet, and liis bier the shield! 
His closing eyes tlie beam of valour speak, 
The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek ; 
Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes, 
Then for his country breathes a prayer — and dies! 
Oh ! ever hallow'd be his verdant grave. 
There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave! 
Thou, lovely Spring ! bestow, to grace his tomb, 
Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom ; 
There let the tears of heaven descend in. balm, 
There let the poet consecrate his palm ! 
Let honour, pity, bless tiie holy ground, 
And shades of sainted heroes watch around ! 
'T was thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell, 
Thy chief, oh Thebes ! at Mantinea fell ; 
Smiled undismay'd within the arms of death, 
While Victory, weeping nigh, received his breath ! 

Oh ! thou, the sovereign of the noble soul, 
Thou source of energies beyond control ! 
Queen of the lofty thought, the gen'rous deed, 
Whose sons unconquer'd fight, undaunted bleed, — 
Inspiring Liberty ! thy worshipp'd name 
The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame; 
Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, 
Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony ; 
More blest, with thee to tread perennial snows. 
Where ne'er a flower expands, a zephyr blovi's ; 
Where Winter, binding nature in his chain, 
In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign ; 
Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove 
The green savannas and the spicy grove ; 
Scent the rich balm of India's perfumed gales, 
In citron-woods and aromatic vales : 
For, oh I fair Liberty, when thou art near, 
Elysium blossoms in the desert drear ! 

Where'er thy smile its magic power bestows, 
There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows; 
The sacred lyre its v.'ild enchantment gives, 
And every chord to swelling transport lives ; 
There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace 
The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace ; 
With bold, Promethean hand, the canvas warms, 
And calls from stone expression's breathing forms 
Thus, where the fruitful Nile o'erflows its bound. 
Its genial waves diffuse abundance round, 
Bid Ceres laugh o'er waste and sterile sands, 
And rich profusion clothe deserted lands. 

Immortal Freedom ! daughter of the skies ! 
To tiiee snail Britain's graceful incense rise. 
Ne'er, goddess ! ne'er forsake thv fav'rite isle. 
Still be thy Albion brighten'd with thy smile ! 



Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose, 
While proudly triumph'd thine insulting foes, 
Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo's light. 
Soon, with celestial beam, lie breaks to sight . 
Once more we see thy kindling soul return, 
Thy vestal-flame with added radiance burn; 
Lo ! in Iberian hearts thine aitlour lives, 
Lo 1 in Iberian hearts thy spark revives ! 

Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band ! 
Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand : 
Though myriads flashing in the eye of day, 
Stream'd o'er the smiling land in long array 
Though tyrant Asia pour'd unnumber'd foes, 
Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose : 
For ev'ry state in sacred union stood, 
Strong to repel invasion's whelming flood ; 
Each heart was glowing in the gen'ral cause. 
Each hand prepared to guard their hallow'd laws 
Athenian valour join'd Laconia's might, 
And but contended to be first in fight; 
From rank to rank the warm contagion ran, 
And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van : 
Then Persia's monarch mourn'd his glories lost 
As wild confusion wing'd his flying host; 
'I'licn Attic bards the hymn of victory sung, 
The Grecian haip to notes exulting rung ! 
Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record 
The high achievements of the conquering sword. 
Thus, brave Castilians ! thus, may bright renown 
And fair success your valiant efforts crown I 

Genius of chivalry ! whose early days 
Tradition still recounts in artless lays ; 
Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls, 
The floating banners, and the lofty halls ; 
The gallant feats thy festivals display'd. 
The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade ; 
Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail. 
In fabling numbers, or heroic tale : 
Those times are fled, vvhen stern thy castles 

frown'd. 
Their stately towers with feudal grandeur 

crown'd ; 
Those times are fled, when fair Iberia's clime 
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime ; 
And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore, 
Live but in legends wild, and poet's lore. 
Lo ! where thy silent harp neglected lies. 
Light o'er its chords the murni'ring zephyr sighs 
The solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung, 
The choral voice of mirth and music rung; 
Now, with tlie ivy clad, forsaken, lone, 
Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan: 
Thy lonely towers deserted fall away, 
Thy broken shield is mould'ring in decay. 
Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone. 
Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown; 
Genius of chivalry ! thy noble train, 
Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain ! 
Fair truth, array'd in robes of spotless white 
Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light. 
Warm emulation, with aspiring aim. 
Still darting forward to the wreath of fame , 
And purest love, that waves his torch divine. 
At awful honour's consecrated shrine ; 




Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance; 
And g-enerous courage, resting on his lance; 
And loyalty, by perils unsubdued; 
Untainted taith, unshaken fortitude; 
And patriot energy, with heart of flame — 
These, in Iberia's sons are yet tiie same ! 
Tliese from remotest days their souls have fired, 
" Nerved ev'ry arm," and ev'ry breast inspired ! 
When Moorish bands their suffering land possess'd 
And fierce oppression rear'd her giant crest; 
The wealthy caliphs on Cordova's throne. 
In eastern gems and purple splendour shone; 
Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied 
With stately Bagdat's oriental pride ; 
Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array'd, 
Where arts and luxury their charms display'd ; 
'T was tlieirs to rear the Zehrar's costly towers, 
Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers ; 
There all Arabian fiction e'er could tell, 
Of potent genii or of wizard spell ; 
All that a poet's dream could picture bright, 
One svi^eet Elysium, charm'd the wond'ring sight! 
Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand. 
It seein'd an Eden from Armida's wand 1 

Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant 
state, 
When freedom waved on high the sword of fate ! 
When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear. 
Stern retribution frowning on his spear; 
And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight, 
O'erwhelm'd with shame, confess'd the Chris- 
tian's might. 

In later times the gallant Cid arose, 
Burning with zeal against his country's foes ; 
His victor-arm Alphonso's throne maintain'd. 
His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain'd; 
And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse. 
Inspiring theme of patriotic verse ! 
High in the temple of recording fame, 
Iberia points to great Gonsalvo's name ; 
Victorious chief! whose valour still defied 
The arms of Gaul, and bow'd her crested pride ; 
With splendid trophies graced his sov'reign's 

throne, 
And bade Granada's realms his prowess own. 
Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain 1 
In mighty Ferdinand's illustrious reign ; 
'T was then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail, 
Unfurl'd his flag before the eastern gale ; 
Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore 
Stas unexplored, and worlds unknown before. 
Fair science guided o'er the liquid realm. 
Sweet hope, exulting, steer'd the daring helm; 
While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye. 
Courageous enterprise still hover'd nigh: 
The hoary genius of th' Atlantic main. 
Saw man invade his wide majestic reign; 
His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued, 
'I'he throne, the world of awful solitude ! 
And e'en wlien shipwreck seem'd to rear his form, 
And dark destruction menaced in the storm ; 
In cy/^y shape, when giant-peril rose. 
To daiint his spirit and his course oppose ; 



O'er ev'ry heart when terror sway'd alone. 
And hope forsook each bosom, but his own: 
Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell'd, 
His glorious track the gallant sailor held ; 
Attentive still to mark tlie sea-birds lave, 
Or high in air their snowy pinions wave. 
Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep, 
With dauntless prow explored th' untravell'4 

deep ; 
Thus, at the helm, Ulysses' watchful sight, 
View'd ev'ry star and planetary light. 
Sublime Columbus ! when, at length, descried, 
The long-sought land arose above the tide. 
How ev'ry heart with exultation glow'd. 
How from each eye the tear of transport flow'd ! 
Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew, 
V/hen Canaan's fertUe plains appear'd in view. 
Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze. 
Then martial music floated o'er the seas; 
Their waving streamers to the sun display'd, 
In all the pride of warlike pomp array'd ; 
Advancing nearer still, the ardent band 
Hail'd the glad shore, and bless'd the stranger 

land ; 
Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair. 
With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air : 
Then crowded round its free and simple race. 
Amazement pictured wild on ev'ry face ; 
Who deem'd that beings of celestial birth. 
Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth- 
Then first another world, another sky. 
Beheld Iberia's banner blaze on high I 

Still prouder glories beam on history's page, 
Imperial Charles ! to mark thy prosperous ags ; 
Those golden days of arts and fancy bright. 
When Science pour'd her mild, refulgent light; 
When Fainting bade the glowing canvas breathe^ 
Creative Sculpture claim'd the living wreath ; 
When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers. 
Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers ; 
When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine. 
The clouds that veil'd religion's hallow'd shrine; 
Those golden days beheld Iberia tower 
High on the pyramid of fame and power; 
Vain all the efforts of her numerous foes. 
Her might, superior still, triumphant rose. 
Thus, on proud Lebanon's exalted brow. 
The cedar, frowning o'er the plains below. 
Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend. 
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e'en to bend ! 

When Gallia pour'd, to Pavia's trophied plain 
Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train ; 
When, after many a toil and danger past. 
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last ; 
That morning saw her glittering host combine, 
And form in close array the threat'ning line; 
P'ire in each eye, and force in ev'ry arm, 
With hope exulting, and with ardour warm ; 
Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play, 
Their armour flashing to the beam of day ; 
Their gen'rous chargers panting, spurn the 

ground. 
Roused by the trumpet's animating sound ; 



And heard in air their warlike music float, 
The rnarlial pipe, the drum's inspiring note ! 

Pale set the sun — the shades of evening- fell, 
riic niournt'ul niglit-wind rung their funeral knell; 
And the same day belield tlicir warriors dead, 
Tlieir sovereign captive, and their glories fled ! 
Fled, like the liglitning's evanescent fire, 
Briglit, blazing, drcadtlil — only to expire ! 
Then, then, wliile prostrate Gaul confcss'd her 

might, 
Iberia's planet shed meridian light ! 
Nor less, on famed St. Quintin's deathful day, 
Castilian spirit bore the prize away ; 
Laurels that still tlieir verdure shall retain. 
And trophies beaming high in glory's fane ! 
And lo ! her heroes, warm with kindred flame, 
Still proudly emulate their fathers' fame; 
Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow, 
Still rush impetuous to repel the foe ; " 
Wave the bright faulchion, lift the beamy spear, 
And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear ! 
Be theirs, be theirs, unfading honour's crown, 
The living amaranths of bright renown ! 
Be theirs th' inspiring tribute of applause, 
Due to the champions of their country's cause ! 
Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves. 
The joy when conscience whispers and approves ! 
When ev'ry heart is fired, each pulse beats high, 
To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty ; 
When ev'ry hand is dauntless and prepared. 
The sacred charter of mankind to guard ; 
When Britain's valiant sons their aid unite. 
Fervent and glowing still for freedom's right, 
Bid ancient enmities for ever cease. 
And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace ; 
When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band, 
Can venal slaves their conquering arms with- 
stand ? 
Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless ? 
Can victory fail to crown them wiih success ? 
Look down, oh, Heaven I the righteous cause 

maintain. 
Defend the injured, and avenge the slain ! 
Despot of France ! destroyer of mankind ! 
What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless 

mind ! 
Oh ! if at midnight round thy regal bed, 
Wlien soothing visions fly thine aching head ; 
When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm, 
And lull thy senses in his opiate balm ; 
Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise. 
And murder'd victims bleed before thine eyes; 
Loud let them tliunder in thy troubled ear, 
" Tyrant ! the hour, th' avenging hour is near I" 
It is, it is ! thy star withdraws its ray. 
Soon will its parting lustre fade away ; 
Soon will Cimmerial shades obscure its light, 
And veil thy splendours in eternal night ! 
Oh I when accusing conscience wakes thy soul. 
With awful terrors, and with dread control. 
Bids threat'ning forms, appalling, round thee 

stand. 
And summons all her visionary band ; 
Calls up the parted shadows of the dead. 
And whitspers, peace and happiness are fled; 
2 1 45 



E'en at the time of silence and of rest. 
Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast , 
Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale ? 
Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail '.' 
And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke 
The bolt of heaven to lanch the fatal stroke ? 
Bereave a nation of its rights revered. 
Of all to mortals sacred and endcar'd ? 
And shall they tamely liberty resign, 
The soul of life, the source of bliss divine? 
Can'st thou, supreme destroyer ! hope to bind, 
In chains of adamant, the noble mind ? 
Go, bid the rolling orbs th}"- mandate hear, 
Go, stay the lightning in its wing'd career! 
No, tyrant ! no, thy utmost force is vain. 
The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain : 
Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine. 
Then bid thy legions all tlieir power combine ! 
Yet could'st thou summon myriads at command, 
Did boundless realms obey thy scepter'd hand. 
E'en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn, 
E'en then, with kindling fire, with indignation 
burn! 

Ye sons of Albion ! first in danger's field. 
The sword of Britain and of truth to wield ! 
Still prompt the injured to defend and save, 
Appal the despot, and assist the brave; 
Who now intrepid lift the gen'rous blade, 
The cause of Justice and Castile to aid ! 
Ye sons of Albion ! by your country's name. 
Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame ; 
Oh ! by the shades of Cressy's martial dead, 
By warrior-bands, at Agincourt who bled ; 
By honours gain'd on Blenheim's fatal plain. 
By those in Victory's arms at Minden slain ; 
By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won, 
Undaunted spirit ! Valour's fav'rite son ! 
By Albion's thousand, thousand deeds sublime. 
Renown'd from zone to zone, from clime to clime, 
Ye British heroes ! may your trophies raise 
A deathless monument to future days ! 
Oh ! may your courage still triumphant rise, 
Exalt the " lion banner" to the skies 1 
Transcend the fairest names in hist'ry's page, 
The brightest actions of a former age ; 
The reign of Freedom let your arms restore, 
And bid oppression fall — to rise no more ! 
Then soon returning to your native isle, 
May love and beauty hail you with their smile ; 
For you may conquest weave th' undying wreath, 
And fame and glory's voice the song of rapturo 
breathe ! 

Ah ! when shall mad ambition cease to rage ? 
Ah I when shall war his demon-wrath assuage ? 
Wlien, when, supplanting discord's iron reign. 
Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again ? 
Not till the despot's dread career is closed. 
And might restrain'd and tyranny deposed ' 

Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign ! 
Fair blue-ey'd seraph ! balmy power divine ! 
Descend once more ! thy hallow'd blessings bring 
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy dovvuv 
wing ! 



506 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



jjuxurianl plenty laughing- in thy train, 
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain; 
Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way, 
Shall gild thy path witli mild celestial ray. 
Descend once more, thou da ghter of the sky ! 
Cheer ev'ry heart, and brighten ev'ry eye ; 
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send, 
Thy myrtle-sceptre o'er the globe extend : 
Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind ; 
TJiy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind ; 
Thy smile of heaven shall ev'ry muse inspire, 
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre. 
Descend once more ! to bid the world rejoice — 
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice ; 
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng. 
Weave the fresh palm, aud swell the choral song ! 
Then shall the shepherd's flute, the woodland 

reed, 
The martial clarion and the drum succeed ; 
Again shall bloom Arcadia's fairest flowers, 
And music warble in Idalian bov/ers. 
Where war and carnage blew the blast of death, 
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath ; 
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain. 
Where the wild combat redden'd o'er the plain. 
These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid I 
■Return, return, in vest of light array'd ! 
Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear 
Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air, 
With accents milder than ^olian lays. 
When o'er the harp the fanning zephyr plays; 
Be thine to charm the raging world to rest. 
Diffusing round the heaven — that glows within 

thy breast I 

Oh, Thou ! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep ! 
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep! 
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind's force. 
And stays the thunder in its vengeful course ; 
Fountain of life ! Omnipotent Supreme ! 
Robed in perfection ! crown'd with glory's beam ! 
Oh ! send on earth thy consecrated dove, 
To bear the sacred olive from above ; 
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time. 
The festal harmony of nature's prime ! 
Bid truth and justice once again appear. 
And spread their sunshine o'er this mundane 

sphere ; 
Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom, 
Transcendant light their hallow'd fane illume ; 
Bid war and anarchy for ever cease. 
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of peace ; 
Brothers once more, let men her empire own. 
And realms and monarchs bend before the throne ; 
While circling rays of angel-mercy shed 
Eternal halos round her sainted head ! 



\ TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



The Secret Tribunal,* which attained such 
'(jrmidable power towards the close of the four- 



' See the woraa or" Baron Bock and Professor Kramer 



teenth century, is mentioned in history as an 
institution publicly known so early as in the year 
1211. Its members, who were called Free Judges, 
were unknown to the people, and were bound by 
a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest 
friends and relatives, without exception, if they 
had committed any offence cognizable by the tri- 
bunal. They were also under an obligation tu 
relate all the}' knew concerning the affair, to cite 
the accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to 
pursue and put him to death, wherever he might 
be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal 
were carried on at night, and with the greatest 
mystery ; and though it was usual to summon a 
culprit three times before sentence was passed, 
yet persons obnoxious to it were sometimes ac- 
cused and condemned without any citation. After 
condemnation, it was almost impossible for any 
one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, 
for their commands set thousands of assassins in 
motion, who had sworn not to spare the lite of 
their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, 
but to execute the decrees of the order with the 
most devoted obedience, even should they consider 
the object of their pursuit as the most innocent of 
men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune 
sought admission into the society ; there were 
Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of the 
imperial cities, and every prince had some of their 
order in his council. When a member of this 
tribunal was not of himself strong enough to seize 
and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose 
sight of him until he met with a sufficient num- 
ber of his comrades for the purpose, and these 
were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to 
lend him immediate assistance, without asking 
any questions. It was usual to hang up the per- 
son condemned, with a willow branch, to the first 
tree; but if circumstances obliged them to despatch 
him with a poniard, they left it in his body, that 
it might be known he had not been assassinated, 
but executed by a Free Judge. All the transac- 
tions of the Sages or Seers (as they called them- 
selves), were enveloped in mystery, and it is even 
now unknown by what signs they revealed them 
selves to each other. At length their power be 
came so extensive and redoubtable, that the Princes 
of the Empire found it necessary to unite their 
exertions for its suppression, in which they were 
at length successful. 

The following account of this extraordinary 
association is given by Madame de Stael : — " Des 
juges mysterieux, inconnus I'un &, I'autre, toujours 
masques, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punis- 
soient dans le silence, et gravoient seulement sur 
le poignard qu'ils enforgoient dans le sein du cou- 
pable ce mot terrible : Tribunal Secret. lis pre- 
venoient le condamn6, en faisant crier, trois fois 
sous les fenStres de samaison, Malheur, Malheur, 
Malheur! Alors I'infortune savoit que partout, 
dans I'etranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son 
parent meme, il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier 
La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, 
tout etoit rempli par la presence invisible de cette 
conscience armee qui poursuivoit les criminels 
On con5oit comment cette terrible institution pou 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



507 



volt 6tre nicessaire, dans un temps oil r.haque 
/lonimc ctoit fort contrc tous, au lieu que tous 
doivent 6tie forts contrc cliacun. II falloit que la 
justice surprit Ic criuiinel avant qu'il put s'en de- 
fendre ; mais cette punition qui planoit dans les 
airs couinie une ombre vengeresse, cctte sentence 
mortelle qui pouvoit receler le sein m6me d'un 

ami, frappoit d'une invincible tcrreur." UAlle- 

magne, Vol. II. 

PART L 

Night veii'd the mountaos of the vine, 
And storms had roused the fouming Rhine, 
And, mingling with the pinewood's roar. 
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, 
While glen and cavern, to their moans. 
Gave answer with a thousand tones : 
Tiien, as the voice of storms appall'd 
The peasant of the Odenwald,* 
Shuddering he dcem'd, that, far on high, 
'T was the wild huntsman rushing by. 
Riding the blast with phantom speed, 
With cry of hound, and tramp of steed, 
While his fierce train, as on they f^ew. 
Their horns in savage chorus blew, 
Till rock, and tower, and convent round. 
Rung to the shrill unearthly sound. 

Vain dreams ! far other footsteps traced 
The forest paths, in secret haste ; 
Far other sounds were on tlie night. 
Though lost amidst the tempest's might, 
That fill'd the echoing earth and sky, 
With its own awful harmony. 
There stood an old and ruin'd fane. 
Far in the Odenwald's domain, 
'Midst wood and rock, a deep recess 
Of still and shadowy loneliness. 
Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown. 
The wild-flower waved o'er the altar-stone. 
The night-wind rock'd the tottering pile, 
As it swept along the roofless aisle. 
For the forest-boughs, and the stormy sky. 
Were all that minster's canopy. 

Many a broken image lay 
In the mossy mantle of decay. 
And partial light tlie moonbeams darted 
O'er trophies of the long departed ; 
For there the chiefs of other days. 
The mighty, slumber'd, with their praise: 
'Twas long since aught but the dews of Heaven 
A tribute to their bier had given, 
Jiong since a sound but the moaning blast 
Above their voiceless home had pass'd. 

So s,ept the proud, and with them all 
The records of tlieir fame and fall ; 
Helmet, and shield, and sculptured crest 
Adorn'd the dwelling of their rest, 
And emblems of the Holy Land 
Were carved by some forgotten hand ; 



* Ths Odenwald, a forest-district near the Rliine, adjoining 
the u nlories of DarniatadL 



Rut the helm was gone, the shield defaced. 

And tlie crest through weeds might scarce be 

traced ; 
And the scatter'd leaves of the northern pine 
Half hid the palm of Palestine. 
So slept the glorious — lowly laid. 
As the peasant in his native shade ; 
Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rhyme, 
All that high deeds could win from time ! 

What footsteps move, with measured tread, 
Amid those chambers of the dead ! 
What silent, shadowy beings glide 
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, 
Peopling the wild and solemn scene 
Witii forms well suited to his mien ? 
Wanderer, away ! let none intrude 
On their mysterious solitude ! 
Lo ! tliese are they, that awful band, 
The secret Watchers of the land. 
They that, unknown and uncontroU'd, 
Their dark and dread tribunal hold. 
They meet not in the monarch's dome. 
They meet not in the chieftain's home ; 
But where, unbounded o'er their heads, 
All heaven magnificently spreads. 
And from its depths of cloudless blue 
The eternal stars their Jeeds may view ! 
Where'er the flowers of the mountain sod 
By roving feet are seldom trod ; 
Where'er the pathless forest waves. 
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves ; 
Where'er wild legends mark a spot. 
By mortals shunn'd, but nnforgot, 
There, circled by the shades of night. 
They judge of crimes that shrink from light, 
And guilt, that deems its secret known 
To the One unsl umbering eye alone. 
Yet hears their name with a sudden start, 
As an icy touch had chill'd its heart. 
For the shadow of th' avenger's hand 
Rests dark and heavy on the land. 

There rose a voice from the ruin's gloom, 
And woke the echoes of the tomb. 
As if the noble hearts beneath 
Sent forth deep answers to its breath. 

" When the midnight stars are buramg. 
And the dead to earth returning ; 
When the spirits of the blest 
Rise upon the good man's rest; 
When each whisper of the gale 
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale; 
In the shadow of tiie hour 
That o'er the soul hath deepest power, 
Why thus meet we, but to call 
For judgment on the criminal? 
Why, but the doom of guilt to seal. 
And point th' avenger's holy steel ? 
A fearful oath has bound our souls, 
A fearful power our arm controls ! 
There is an ear, awake on liigh. 
E'en to thought's whispers, ere they die, 
Tliere is an eye, whose beam pervades 
All depths, all deserts, and all shades 



That ear hath heard our awful vow, 

That searching eye is on us now • 

Let him whose heart is unprofaned, 

Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain'd — 

Let him, whose thoughts no record keep 

Of crimes, in silence buried deep. 

Here, in the face of Heaven, accuse 

Tiie guilty whom its wrath pursues !" 

'T was hush'd — that voice of thrilling sound, 
And a dead silence reign'd around. 
Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form 
Tower'd like a phantom in the storm ; 
Gathering his mantle, as a cloud. 
With its dark folds his face to shroud, 
Through pillar'd arches on he pass'd. 
With stately step, and paused at last. 
Where, on the altar's mouldering stone, 
The fitful moonbeam brightly shone ; 
Then on the fearful stillness broke 
TjOW, solemn tones, as thus he spoke : 

" Before that eye, whose glance pervades 
All depths, all deserts, and all shades ; 
Heard by that ear awake on high 
E'en to thought's whispers ere they die ; 
With all a mortal's awe I stand. 
Yet with pure heart, and stainless hand. 
To Heaven I lift that hand, and call 
For judgment on the criminal ; 
The earth is dyed with bloodshed's hues, 
It cries for vengeance — I accuse !" 

" Name thou the guilty ! say for whom 
Thou claim'st th' inevitable doom I" 

" Albert of Lindheim — to the skies 
The voice of blood against him cries; 
A brother's blood — his hand is dyed 
With the deep slain of fratricide. 
One hour, one moment, hath reveal'd. 
What years in darkness had conceal'd — 
But all in vain — the gulf of time 
Refused to close upon his crime ; 
And guilt that slept on flowers, shall know. 
The earthquake was not hush'd below ! 

Here, where amidst the noble dead. 
Awed by their fame, he dare not tread ; 
Where, left by him to dark decay, 
Their trophies moulder fast away ; 
Around us and beneath us lie 
The relics of his ancestry; 
The chiefs of Lindheim's ancient race, 
Each in his last low dwelling-place: 
But one is absent — o'er his grave 
The palmy shades of Syria wave ; 
Far distant from his native Rhine, 
He died unmourn'd, in Palestine ; 
The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, 
To perish by a brother's hand ! 
Peace to his soul ! though o'er his bed 
No dirge be pour'd, no tear be shed. 
Though all he loved his name forget, 
They live who shall avenge him yet !" 



" Accuser ! how to thee alone 
Became the fearful secret known ?" 

"There is an hour when vain remorse 
First wakes in her eternal force ; 
When pardon may not be retrieved. 
When conscience will not be deceived. 
He that beheld the victim bleed. 
Beheld, and aided in the deed — 
When earthly fears had lost their power 
Reveal'd the tale in such an hour, 
Unfolding, with his latest breath. 
All that gave keener pangs to death." 

" By Him, th' All-seeing and Unseen, 
Who is for ever, and hath been. 
And by th' Atoner's cross adored, 
And by th' avenger's holy sword, 
By truth eternal and divine. 
Accuser ! wilt thou swear to thine?" 

" The cross upon my heart is prest, 
I hold the dagger to my breast ; 
If false tlie tale whose truth I swear. 
Be mine the murderer's doom to bear 1" 

Then sternly rose the dread reply — 
" His days are number'd — he must die! 
There is no shadow of the night. 
So deep as to conceal his flight ; 
Earth doth not hold so lone a waste, 
But there his footstep shall be traced ; 
Devotion hath no shrine so blest. 
That there in safety he may rest. 
Where'er he treads, let Vengeance thera 
Around him spread her secret snare I 
In the busy haunts of men, 
In the still and shadowy glen. 
When the social board is crown'd. 
When the wine-cup sparkles round ; 
When his couch of sleep is prest, 
And a dream his spirit's guest ; 
When his bosom knows no fear, 
Let the dagger still be near. 
Till, sudden as the lightning's dart. 
Silent and swift it reach his heart ! 
One warning voice, one fearful word, 
Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, 
Then vainly may the guilty fly, 
Unseen, unaided, — he must die I 
Let those he loves prepare his tomb. 
Lei friendship lure him to his doom ! 
Perish his deeds, his name, his race, 
Without a record or a trace ! 
Away ! be watchful, swift, and free, 
To wreak th' Invisible's decree. 
'T is pass'd — th' avenger claims his prey 
On to the chase of death — away !" 

And all was still — the sweeping blast 
Caught not a whisper as it pass'd ; 
The shadowy forms were seen no more, 
The tombs deserted as before; 
And the wide forest waved immense. 
In dark and lone magnificence. 
In Lindheim's towers the feast had closed. 
The song was hush'd, the bard reposed • 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



50'J 



Sleep settled on the weary gfuest, 
And the castle's lord retired to rest. 
To rest ! tiie captive dooni'd to die, 
May slumber, when his hour is nigh ; 
The seaman, when the billows foam, 
Eock'd on the mast, may dream of home ; 
The warrior, on the battle's eve. 
May win trom care a short reprieve ; 
But earth and heaven alike deny 
Their peace to guilt's o'ervvearied eye ; 
And nig-ht, that brings to grief a calm, 
To toil a pause, to pain a balm, 
Hath spells terrific in her course, 
Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse, 
Voices, that long from earth had fled. 
And steps and echoes from the dead ; 
And many a dream, whose forms arise, 
Like a darker world's realities 1 
Call them not vain illusions — born. 
But for the wise and brave to scorn ! 
Heaven, that the penal doom defers, 
Hath yet its thousand ministers. 
To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, 
In shade, in silence, and alone. 
Concentrating in one brief hour 
Ages of retribution's power ! 

If thou wouldst know the lot of those, 
Whose souls are dark with guilty woes. 
Ah ! seek them not where pleasure's throng 
Are listening to the voice of song ; 
Seek them not where the banquet glows, 
And the red vineyard's nectar flows : 
There mirth may flush tlie hollow cheek, 
The eye of feverish joy may speak. 
And smiles, the ready mask of pride, 
The canker-worm within may hide : 
Heed not those signs ! they but delude ; 
Follow, and mark their solitude ! 

The song is hush'd, the feast is done, 
And Lindheim's lord remains alone, 
Alone, in silence and unrest, 
With the dread secret of his breast; 
Alone with anguish and with fear ; 
— There needs not an avenger here ! 
Behold him ! — Why that sudden start? 
Thou hear'st the beating of thy heart ! 
Thou hear'st the night-wind's hollow sigh, 
Thou hear'st the rustling tapestry ! 
No sound but these may near thee be ; 
Sleep I all things earthly sleep — but thee. 

No ! there are murmurs on the air. 
And a voice is heard that cries — " Despair !" 
And he who trembles fain would deem 
'T was the whisper of a waking dream. 
Was it but tills ?— again 't is there. 
Again is heard — " Despair ! Despair !" 
'Tis past — its tones have slowly died 
In echoes on the mountain side ; 
Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. 
He knew their fearful meaning well. 
And siirinking from the midnight gloom. 
As from the shadow of the tomb, 
45* 



Yet shuddering, turn'd in p.ilc dismay 
When broke the dawn's first kindling ray, 
And sought, amidst tlie Ibrest wild, 
Some shade where sunbeam never smiled. 

Yes ! hide thee, guilt ! — the laughing morn 
Wakes in a heaven of splendour born ! 
The storms that shook the mountain crest 
Have sought their viewless world of rest. 
High from his clitTs, with ardent gaze, 
Soars the young eagle in the blaze, 
Exulting, as he wings his way. 
To revel in the fount of day. 
And brightly past his banks of vine. 
In glory, flows the monarch Rhine i 
And joyous peals the vintage song 
His wild luxuriant shores along, 
As peasant bands, from rock and dell. 
Their strains of choral transport swell ; 
And cliflfs of bold fantastic forms. 
Aspiring to the realm of storms ; 
And woods around, and waves below, 
Catch thfe red Orient's deepening glow. 
That lends each tower, and convent-spire, 
A tinge of its ethereal fire. 
Swell high the song of festal hours ! 
Deck ye the shrine with living flowers ! 
Let music o'er the waters breathe ! 
Let beauty twine the bridal wreath ! 
While she, whose blue eye laughs in light. 
Whose cheek with love's own hue is brigh; 
The fair-hair'd maid of Lindheim's hall. 
Wakes to her nuptial festival. 

Oh ! who hath seen, in dreams that soar 
To worlds the soul would fain explore. 
When, for her own blest country pining, 
Its beauty o'er her thought is shining. 
Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye 
Was ail one beam of ecstasy I 
Whose glorious brow no traces wore 
Of guilt, or sorrow known before ! 
Whose smile, undimm'd by aught of earth. 
A sunbeam of immortal birth. 
Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying. 
Where love and joy are both undying I 
E'en thus — a vision of deligiit, 
A beam to gladden mortal sigiit, 
A flower whose head no storm had bow'd, 
Whose leaves ne'er droop'd beneath ;i clouo 
Thus, by the world unstuin'd, untried, 
Seem'd that beloved and lovely bride; 
A being all too soft and fair. 
One breath of earthly woe to bear ! 
Yet lives there many a lofty mind, 
In ligiit and fragile form enshrined ; 
And oft smootii cheei^, and smiling eye, 
Hide strengtii to suifcr and to die ! 
Judge not of woman's heart in liours 
That strew her path with summer flowers 
When joy's full cup is mantling high, 
When flattery's blandisiunents are nigh ; 
Judge her not then ! witliin her breast 
Are energies unseen, tiiat rest ! 
They wait their call — and grief alone 
May make the soul's deep secrets known. 



=rli 



61 n 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Yes . let her smile, 'midst pleasure's train 
Leading- the reckless and the vain ! 
Finn on the scaffold she hath stood, 
Besprinkled with the martyr's blood; 
Her voice the patriot's heart hath steel'd. 
Her spirit glow'd on battle-field ; 
Her courage freed from dungeon's gloom, 
The captive brooding o'er his doom ; 
Her faith the fallen monarch saved, 
Her love the tyrant's fury braved; 
No scene of danger or despair, 
But she hath won her triumph there ! 

Away ! nor cloud the festal morn 
With thoughts of boding sadness borne ! 
Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, 
Fair daughter of a noble line I 
Young Ella ! from thy tower, whose height 
Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, 
Watching, while soft the morning air 
Parts on thy brow the sunny hair. 
Yen bark, that o'er the calm blue tide 
Bears thy loved warrior to his bride — * 
He, whose high deeds romantic praise 
Hath hallow'd with a thousand lays. 

Ho came — that youthful chief— he came, 
That favour'd lord of love and fame ! 
His step was hurried — as of one 
Who seeks a voice within to shun ; 
His cheek was varying, and express'd 
The conflict of a troubled breast : 
His eye was anxious — doubt, and dread, 
And a stern grief, might there be read; 
Yet all that mark'd his alter'd mien 
Seem'd struggling to be still unseen. 

With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, 
Young Ella met the brow austere. 
And the wild look, which seem'd to fly 
The timid welcome of her eye. 
Was that a lover's gaze, which chill'd 
The soul, its awful sadness thrill'd ? 
A lover's brow, so darkly fraught 
With all the heaviest gloom of thought? 
Shetrembled — ne'er to grief inured, 
By its dread lessons ne'er matured : 
Unused to meet a glance of less 
Than ail a parent's tenderness. 
Shuddering she felt, through every sense, 
The death-like faintness of suspense. 

High o'er the windings of the flood. 
On Lindlieim's terraced rocks they stood, 
Whence the free sight afar might stray 
O'er that imperial river's way. 
Which, rushing from its Alpine source, 
Makes one long triumph of its course, 
Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, 
'Midst Nature's noblest pageantry. 
But they, o'er that majestic scene 
With clouded brow and anxious mien 
In silence gazed : — for Ella's heart 
Fear'd its own terrors to impart ; 
And he, who vainly strove to hide 
His oangs with all a warrior's pride, 



Seem'd gathering couriige to unfold 
Some fearful tale tiiat must be told. 

At length his mien, his voice, obtnin'd 
A calm, that seem'd by conflicts gain'd, 
And thus he spoke— ""Yes ! gaze a while 
On the bright scenes that round thee smile ; 
For, if thy love be firm and true, 
Soon must thou bid their charms adieu! 
A fate hangs o'er us, whose decree 
Must bear me far from them or thee ; 
Our path is one of snares and fear, 
I lose thee if I linger here ! 
Droop not, beloved ! thy home shall rise 
As fair, beneath far distant skies ; 
As fondly tenderness and truth 
Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. 
But speak ! and when yon hallow'd shrine 
Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, 
Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more 
To tread thine own loved mountain-shore, 
But share and soothe, repining not, 
The bitterness of exile's lot ?" 

" Ulric ! thou know'st how dearlv loved 
The scenes where first my childhood roved; 
The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme 
Above our own majestic stream. 
The halls where first my heart beat high 
To the proud songs of chivalry. 
All, all are dear — yet these are ties 
Affection well may sacrifice ; 
Loved thcjugh they be, where'er thou art. 
There is the country of my heart I 
Yet, is there one, who, reft of me, 
Were lonely as a blasted tree ; 
One, wlio still hoped my hand should close 
His eyes, in Nature's la'st repose ; 
Eve gathers round him — on his brow 
Already rests the wintry snow ; 
His form is bent, his features wear 
The deepening lines of age and care, 
His faded eye hath lost its fire; 
Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire ? 
Yet tell me all — thy woes impart, 
My Ulric ! to a faithful heart, 
Which sooner far— oh, doubt not this — 
Would share thy pangs, than others' bliss !" 

" Ella, what would'st thou ? — 'tis a tale 
Will make that cheek as marble pale ! 
Yet what avails it to conceal 
All tJiou too soon must know and feel? 
It must, it must be told — prepare, 
And nerve that gentle heart to bear — 
But I — oh, was it then for me 
The herald of thy woes to be ! 
Thy soul's bright calmness to destroy. 
And wake thee first from dreams of joy ? 
Forgive ! — I would not ruder tone 
Should make the fearful tidings known, 
I would not that unpitying eyes 
Should coldly watch thine agonies ! 
Better 'twere mine— that task severe. 
To cloud thy breast with grief and fear ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



511 



" f last thou not heard, in legends old. 
Wild tales tliat turn the life-blood cold, 
Of those wlio meet in cave or glen. 
Far from the busy walks of men ; 
Tliose who mysterious vigils keep, 
When carlh is wrapt in shades and sleep, 
To judge of crimes, like Him on high. 
In stillness and in secresy ? 
Th' unknown avengers, whose decree 
'T is fruitless to resist or flee ? 
Wiiose name hath cast a spell of power 
O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tower? 
Thy sire — oh, Ella ! hope is fled I 
Think of him, mourn him, as the dead ! 
Their sentence, theirs, hath seal'd his doom, 
And thou niay'st weep as o'er liis tomb ! 
Yes, weep I — relieve thy heart oppress'd, 
Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast ! 
Thy cheek is cold — thy tearless eye 
Seems fix'd in frozen vacancy ; 
Oh, gaze not thus ! — thy silence break, 
Speak '. if 'tis but in anguish, speak 1" 

She spoke at length, in accents low 
Of wild and half-indignant woe : 
— " He doom'd to perish I he decreed 
By their avenging arm to bleed I 
He, the renown'd in holy fight, 
The Paynim's scourge, the Christian's might ! 
Ulric I what mean'st thou ? — not a tiiought 
Of that high mind with guilt is fraugiit ! 
Say, for which glorious trophy won. 
Which deed of martial prowess done; 
Whicii battle-field, in days gone by, 
Gain'd by his valour, must he die ? 
Away ! 't is not his lofty name 
Their sentence hath consign'd to shame ; 
'T is net his life they seek — recall 
Thy words, or say he shall not fall !" 

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief 
Gave pleading softness to her grief: 
" And wilt thou not, by all the ties 
Of our affianced love," she cries, 
" By all my soul hath fix'd on thee. 
Of cherish'd hope for years to be. 
Wilt thou not aid him ? wilt not thou 
Shield his grey head from danger now ? 
And didst thou not, in childhood's morn, 
That saw our young aflfection born. 
Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, 
Sharing his parent-smile with me? 
Kind, gentle Ulric ! best beloved ! 
Now be thy faith in danger proved ! 
Though snares and terrors round him wait, 
Thou wilt not leave him to his fate I 
Turn not away in cold disdain ! 
— Siiall thine own Ella plead in vain? 
How art thou changed ! and must I bear 
Ttiat frown, that stern, averted air? 
What mean they ?" 

"Maiden, need'st thou ask? 
These features wear no specious mask ! 
Doth sorrow mark tliis brow and eye 
With characters of mystery ? 



This — this is anguish ! — can it be? 

And plead'st thou for thy sire to me ? 

Know though thy prayers a death-pang give, 

He must not meet my sight — and live ! 

Well may'st thou shudder ! — of the band 

Who watch in secret o'er the land. 

Whose thousand swords 'tis vain to shun, 

Th' unknown, th' unslumbering — I am one . 

My arm defend him ! — what were then 

Each vow that binds the souls of men, 

Sworn on the cross, and deefily seal'd 

By rites that may not be reveal'd? 

— A breeze's breatii, an eeiio's tone, 

A passing sound, forgot when gone ! 

Nay, shrink not from me-— I would fly, 

That he by other hands may die! 

What ! tinnk'st thou I would live to trace 

Abliorrence in that angel-face ? 

Beside thee should the lover stand. 

The father's life-blood on his brand? 

No ! I have bade my home adieu, 

For other scenes mine eyes must view ; 

Look on me, love ! now all is known, 

O Ella ! must I fly alone ?" 

But she was changed ; scarce headed he? 
breath ; 
She stood like one prepared for death. 
And wept no more ; then, casting down 
From her fiiir brows the nuptial crown, 
As joy's last vision from her heart. 
Cried, with sad firmness, " We must part I 
'Tis past — these bridal flowers, so frail 
They may not brook one stormy gale. 
Survive — too dear as still thou art. 
Each hope they imaged — we must part 1 
One struggle yet — and all is o'er — 
We love — and may we meet no more ! 
Oh! liltle know'st thou of the power 
AiTection lends in danger's hour. 
To deem that fate should thus divide 
My footsteps from a father's side ! 
Speed thou to other shores — I go 
To share his wanderings and his woe; 
Where'er his path of tiiorns may lead, 
Whate'er his doom, by Heaven decreed, 
If there be guardian powers above, 
To nerve the heart of filial love; 
If courage may be won by prayer, 
Or strength by duty — I can bear ! 
Farewell I — though in that sound be years 
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, 
Though the soul vibrate to its knell 
Of joys departed — yet, farewell !" 

Was this the maid who seem'd, erewhile, 
Born but to meet life's vernal smile ? 
A being, almost on the wing. 
As an embodied breeze of spring? 
A child of beauty and of bliss, 
Sent from some purer sphere to this, 
Not, in her exile, to sustain 
The trial of one earthly pam ; 
But, as a sunbeam, on to move, 
Wak'ning all hearts to joy and lo^e? 



That airy form, with footsteps free, 

And radiant glance — could this be she ? 

From her fair cheek the rose was gone. 

Her eye's blue sparkle thence had flown, 

Of all its vivid glow bereft, 

Each playful charm her lip had left; 

But what were these ? on that young face, 

Far nobler beauty fill'd their place ! 

'T was not the pride that scorns to bend, 

Though all the bolts of Heaven descend ; 

Not the fierce grandeur of despair, 

That half exults its fate to dare ; 

Nor that wild energy which leads 

Th' enthusiast to fanatic deeds : 

Her rnien, by sorrow unsubdued, 

Was fix'd in silent fortitude ; 

Not in its haughty strength elate. 

But calmly, mournfully sedate. 

'T was strange, yet lovely to behold 

That spirit in so fair a mould. 

As if a rose-tree's tender form, 

Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm. 

One look she cast, where firmness strove 
Witli the deep pangs of parting love ; 
' )ne tear a moment in her eye 
Dimm'd the pure light of constancy ; 
And pressing, as to still her heart, 
She turn'd in silence to depart. 
But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought. 
Then started from his trance of thought: 
" Stay thee, oh, stay ! — it must not be — 
All, all were well resign'd for thee ! 
Stay ! till my soul each vow disown. 
But those which make me thine alone ! 
If there be guilt — there is no shrine 
More holy than that heart of thine ; 
There be my crime absolved — I take 
The cup of shame for thy dear sake. 
Of shame '. oh no ! to virtue true. 
Where thou art, there is glory too ! 
Go now ! and to thy sire impart. 
He hath a shield in Ulric's heart. 
And thou a home I — remain, or flee. 
In life, in death — I follow thee !" 

" There shall not rest one cloud of shame, 
Oh Ulric ! on thy lofty name ; 
There shall not one accusing word 
Against thy spotless faith be heard! 
Thy path is where the brave rush on. 
Thy course must be where palms are won ; 
Where banners wave, and falchions glare, 
Son of the mighty ! be thou there ! 
Think on the glorious names that shine 
Along thy sire's majestic line ; 
Oh, last of that illustrious race ! 
Thou wert not born to meet disgrace ! 
Well, well I know each grief, each pain, 
Thy spirit nobly could sustain : 
E'en I unshrinking see them near. 
And what hast thou to do with fear? 
But when hatli warrior calmly borne 
The cold and bitter smile of scorn ? 
"T is not ^or thee — thy soul hath force 
To CQpe with cdl things — but remorse: 



And thus my brightest thought shall be, 
Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. 
Go ! break thou not one solemn vow, 
Closed be the fearful conflict now ; 
Go ! but forget not how my heart 
Still at thy name will proudly start. 
When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell, 
Thy deeds of glory — fare thee well I" 

And thus they parted — why recall 
The scene of anguish known to all ? 
The burst of tears, the blush of pride. 
That fain those fruitless tears would hide ; 
The lingering look, the last embrace, 
Oh ! what avails it to retrace ? 
They parted — in that bitter word 
A thousand tones of grief are heard. 
Whose deeply -seated echoes rest 
In the far cells of every breast : 
Who hath not known, who shall not know 
That keen, yet most familiar woe ? 
Where'er affection's home is found, 
It meets her on the holy ground ; 
The cloud of every summer hour, 
The canker-worm of every flower ; 
Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, 
That mortal agony of love ? 

The autumn moon slept bright and still 
On fading wood and purple hill ; 
The vintager had hush'd his lay, 
The fisher shunn'd the blaze of day. 
And silence, o'er each green recess, 
Brooded in misty sultriness. 
But soon a low and measured sound 
Broke on the deep repose around ; 
From Lindheim's tower a glancing oar 
Ijade the stream ripple to the shore. 
Sweet was that sound of waves which parteo 
7'he fond, the true, the noble-hearted ; 
And smoothly seem'd the bark to glide. 
And brightly flow'd the reckless tide. 
Though, mingling with its current, fell 
The last warm tears of love's farewell. 



Part II. 

Sweet is the gloom of forest shades, 
Their pillar'd walks and dim arcades. 
With all the thousand flowers that blow, 
A waste of loveliness, below. 
To him whose soul the world would fly. 
For Nature's lonely majesty : 
To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes. 
To lover, lost in fairy dreams, 
To hermit, whose prophetic thought 
By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, 
And, in the visions of his rest, 
Held bright communion with the blest 
'T is sweet, but solemn — there alike 
Silence and sound with awe can strike. 
The deep Eolian mu'-mur made 
By sighing breeze and rustling shade, 
And cavern'd fountain gushing nigh, 
And wild-bee's plaintive Hh by, 



Or the dead stillness of the bowers, 

When dark the summer-tempest lowers; 

\Vhen silent Nature seems to wait 

The gathering Thunder's voice of fate, 

>Vhcn the aspen scarcely waves in air. 

And the clouds collect for tiie lightning's glare, 

Each, each alike is awful there. 

And thrills the soul with feelings high. 

As some majestic harmony. 

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced 
Each green retreat, in breathless haste, 
Young Ella linger'd not, to hear 
The wood-notes, lost on mourner's ear ; 
The shivering leaf, the breeze's play, 
The fountain's gush, the wild-bird's lay ; 
These charm not now — her sire she sought. 
With trembling frame, with anxious thought, 
And, starting, if a forest deer 
But moved the rustling branches near, 
First felt that innocence may fear. 

She reach'd a lone and shadowy dell, 
Where the free sunbeam never fell ; 
'T was twilight there at summer-noon, 
Deep night beneath the harvest-moon. 
And scarce might one bright star be seen 
Gleaming the tangled boughs between ; 
For many a giant rock around. 
Dark, in terrific grandeur, frown'd. 
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high. 
Shut out each glimpse of the blessed sky ; 
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave. 
Ne'er to Heaven's beam one sparEle gave. 
And the wild-flower, on its brink that grew, 
Caught not from day one glowing hue. 

'T was said, some fearful deed untold, 
Had stain'd that scene in days of old ; 
Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown 
A shade yet deeper than its own, 
And still, amidst th' umbrageous gloom, 
Perchance above some victim's tomb, 
O'ergrown with ivy and with moss. 
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, 
Which haply silent record bore. 
Of guilt and penitence of yore. 

Who by that holy sign was kneeling. 
With brow unutter'd pangs revealing. 
Hands clasp'd convulsively in prayer. 
And lifted eyes and streaming hair. 
And cheek, all pale as marble mould. 
Seen by the moonbeam's radiance cold? 
Was it some image of despair. 
Still fix'd tliat stamp of woe to bear ? 
— Oh ! ne'er could Art her forms have wrought. 
To speak such agonies of thought! 
Those death-like features gave to view 
A mortal's pangs, too deep and true ! 
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye, 
As Ella's hurried step drew nigh ; 
He turn'd with aspect darkly wild, 
Trcmblinpf he stood — before his child I 
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung, 
And tc her father's bosom clung. 



" Away ! what seck'st thou here ?*" he cried, 
" Art thou not now thine Ulric's bride? 
Hence, leave me, leave me to await, 
In solitude, the storm of Fate ; 
Thou know'st not what my doom may be. 
Ere evening comes in peace to thee." 

" My father ! shall the joyous throng 
Swell liigh for me the bridal song ? 
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread. 
The festal garland bind my head. 
And thou, in grief, in peril, roam. 
And make the wilderness thy home ? 
No ! I am here, with thee to share 
All suffering mortal strength may bear ; 
And, oh ! whate'er thy foes decree. 
In life, in death, in chains, or free ; 
Well, well I feel, in thee secure. 
Thy heart and hand alike are pure !" 

Then was there meaning in his look, 
Which deep that trusting spirit shook; 
So wildly did each glance express 
The strife of shame and bitterness : 
And thus he spoke : " Fond dreams, oh hence J 
Is this the mien of Innocence ? 
This furrow'd brow, this restless eye. 
Read thou this fearful tale — and fly ! 
Is it enough ? or must I seek 
For words, the tale of guilt to speak ? 
Then be it so — I will not doom 
Thy youth to wither in its bloom ; 
I will not see thy tender frame 
Bow'd to the earth with fear and shame. 
No ! though I teach thee to abhor 
The sire, so fondly loved before ; 
Though the dread eflPort rend my breast, 
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest : 
Oh ! bitter penance ! thou wilt turn 
Away in horror and in scorn ; 
Thy looks, that still through all the past 
Afiection's gentlest beams have cast, 
As lightning on my heart will fall, 
And I must mark and bear it all ! 
Yet though of life's best ties bereaved, 
Thou shalt not, must not be deceived ! 
I linger — let me speed the tale. 
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. 
Why should I falter thus, to tell 
What Heaven so long hath known too well? 
Yes ! though from mortal sight conceal'd, 
There hath a brother's blood appeal'd ! 
He died — 't was not where banners wave 
And war-steeds trample on the brave; 
He died — it was in Holy Land ; 
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand ; 
He sleeps not with his sires at rest, 
With trophicd shield and knightly crest; 
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, 
— But I can tell thee where he lies ! 
It was a wild and savage spot. 
But once beheld — and ne'er forgot! 
I see it now — that haunted scene 
My spirit's dwelling still hath been; 
And he is there — I see him laid 
Beneath that palm-trce's lonelv shade 



514 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



The fountain- wave that sparkles nigh, 
Bears witness with its crimson dye I 
I see th' accusing- glance he raised, 
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed ; 
—Ne'er will that parting look forgive I 
I still behold it — and I live ! 
[ live ! from hope, from mercy driven, 
A mark for all the shafts of Heaven ! 

" Yet had I wrongs : by fraud he won 
My birth-right— and my child, my son, 
Heir to high name, high fortune born, 
Was doom'd to penury and scorn, 
An alien 'midst his fathers' halls. 
An exile from his native walls. 
Could I bear this?— the rankling thought, 
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought ; 
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, 
Lurk'd in my infant's rosy smile. 
And when his accents lisp'd my name, 
Tlicy woke my inmost heart to flame ! 
I struggled — are there evil powers 
Tiiat claim tlieir own ascendant hours? 
— O I what should thine unspotted soul 
Or know or fear of their control ? 
Why on the fearful conflict dwell ? 
Vainly I struggled — and I fell : 
Cast down from every hope of bliss. 
Too well thou know'st to what abyss ! 

'"T was done— that moment hurried by 
To darken all eternity ! 
Years roU'd away, long, evil years. 
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears ; 
Nor aught but vain remorse I gain'd. 
By the deep guilt my soul whicJi stain'd; 
For, long a captive in the lands 
Where Arabs tread their burning sands. 
The haunted midnight of the mind 
Was round me while in chains I pined, 
By all forgotten save by one 
Dread presence — which I could not shun. 

" How ofl:, when o'er the silent waste 
Nor path nor landmark might be traced. 
When slumbering by the watch-fire's ray, 
The Wanderers of the Desert lay. 
And stars, as o'er an ocean, shone. 
Vigil I kept — but not alone ! 
That form, that image from the dead. 
Still walk'd tlie wild with soundless tread ! 
I 've seen it in the fiery blast, 
I 've seen it where the sand-storms pass'd ; 
Beside the Desert's fount it stood, 
Tinging the clear cold wave with blood ; 
And e'en when viewless, by the fear 
Curdling my veins, I knev 't was near ! 
— Was near ' — I feel th' unearthly thrill, 
Its power is on my spirit still ! 
A mystic influence, undefined. 
The spell, the shadow of my mind ! 

" Wilt thou yet linger ? — time speeds on ; 
One last farewell, and then begone ! 
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow. 
And let ma read thine aspect now ! 



No ! stay thee yet, and learn the meed 
Heaven's justice to my crime decreed. 
Slow came the day that broke my chain, 
But I at length was free again ; 
And freedom brings a burst of joy. 
E'en guilt itself can scarce destroy. 
I thouglit upon my own fair towers, 
My native Rhine's gay vineyard bowers, 
And, in a father's visions press'd 
Thee and thy brother to my breast. 

" 'Twas but in visions — canst thou yet 
Recall the moment when we met ? 
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung. 
Thy arms around me fondly clung; 
Scarce aught than infant-seraph less, 
Seem'd thy pure childhood's loveliness; 
But he was gone — that son, for whom 
I rush'd on guilt's eternal doom. 
He for whose sake alone were given 
My peace on earth, my hope in Heaven, 
He met me not. — A ruthless hand. 
Whose name with terror fill'd the land, 
Fierce outlav/s of the wood and wild, 
Had reft the father of liis child. 
Foes to my race, the hate tliey nursed, 
Full on that cherish'd scion burst. 
Unknown his fate. — No ])arent nigh. 
My boy ! my first-born ! didst thou die ? 
Or did they spare thee for a life 
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife? 
Livest thou, unfriended, unallicd, 
A wanderer, lost without a guide ? 
Oh ! to thy fate's mysterious gloom 
Blest were the darkness of the tomb ! 

" Ella ! 't is done — my guilty heart 
Before thee all unveil'd — depart ! 
Few pangs 't will cost thee now to fly 
From one so stain'd, so lost, as I ; 
Yet peace to thine untainted breast. 
E'en though it hate me — be thou blest! 
Farewell I thou shalt not linger here ; 
E'en now th' avenger may be near : 
Where'er I turn, the foe, the snare ; 
The dagger, may be ambush'd there ; 
One hour — and haply all is o'er. 
And we must meet on earth no more ; 
No, nor beyond ! — to those pure skies 
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise ; 
Heaven's will for ever parts our lot. 
Yet, oh ! my child ! abhor me not ! 
Speak once ! to soothe this broken heart. 
Speak to me once ! and then depart !" 

But still — as if each pulse were dead. 
Mute — as the power of speech were fled, 
Pale — as if life-blood ceased to warm 
The marble beauty of her form ; 
On the dark rock she lean'd her head. 
That seem'd as tliere 't were riveted, 
And dropt the hands, till then which press'd 
Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. 
There beam'd no tear-drop in her eye. 
And from her lip there breathed no sigh. 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 515 


And on her biow no trace there dwelt, 


Clasp'd by despairing hands, and laved 


'I'liat told she suff'er'd or she felt. 


By the warm tears of nations saved ; 


All that once glow'd, or smiled, or beam'd, 


In one deep prayer their sj)irits blent. 


Now fix'd, and qucnch'd, and frozen seem'd ; 


The guilty and the innocent ; 


And long her sire, in wild dismay, 


Youth, pure as if from Heaven its birth, 


Dcem'd her pure spirit pass'd away. 


Age, soil'd with every stain of earth. 




Knelt, oflfering up one heart, one cry. 


Bnt life return'd. O'er that cold frame 


One sacrifice of agony. 


One deep convnlsive shudder came, 




And a faint light her eye relumed, 


Oh ! blest, though bitter be their source, 


And sad resolve her mien assumed ; 


Though dark the fountain of remorse, 


But there was horror in the gaze, 


Blest are the tears which pour from thence 


Which yet to his she dare not raise, 


Th' atoning stream of penitence! 


And her sad accents, wild and low, 


And let not pity check the tide 


As rising from a depth of woe, 


By which the heart is purified; 


At first with hurried trembling broke, 


Let not vain comfort turn its course, 


But gather'd firmness as she spoke. 


Or timid love repress its force ! 




Go ! bind the flood, whose waves expand. 


" I leave thee not — whate'er betide, 


To bear luxuriance o'er the land ; 


My footstep shall not quit thy side; 


Forbid the life-restoring rains 


Pangs, keen as death, my soul may thrill. 


To fall on Afric's burning plains; 


But yet thou art my father still ! 


Close up the fount that gush'd to cheer 


And, oh ! if stain'd by guilty deed. 


The pilgrim o'er the waste who trode ; 


For some kind spirit, tenfold need, 


But check thou not one holy tear, 


To speak of Heaven's absolving love. 


Which Penitence devotes to God ! 


And waft desponding though.t above. 




Is there not power in mercy's wave. 


Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne'er 


The blood-stain from thy soul to lave ? 


Was roused by huntsman's bugle there; 


Is there not balm to heal despair, 


So rude, that scarce might human eye 


In tears, in penitence, in prayer ? 


Sustain their dread sublimity ; 


My father! kneel at His pure shrine 


So awful, that the timid swain. 


Who died to expiate guilt like thine. 


Nurtured amidst their dark domain. 


Weep — and my tears with thine shall blend. 


Had peopled, with unearthly forms, 


Pray — while my prayers with thine ascend. 


Their mists, their forests, and their storms ; 


And, as our mingling sorrows rise. 


She, whose blue eye, of laughing light, 


Heaven will relent, though earth despise !" 


Once made each festal scene more bright ; 




Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest. 


"My child, my child ! these bursting tears, 


Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest. 


The first mine eyes have shed for years, 


By torrent-wave, and mountain-brow, 


Though deepest conflicts they express, 


Is wandering as an outcast now. 


Yet flow not all in bitterness ! 


To share with Lindheim's fallen chief. 


Oh I thou hast bid a wither'd heart 


His shame, his terror, and his grief. 


From desolation's slumber start, 




Thy voice of pity and of love 


Hast thou not mark'd the ruin's flower. 


Seems o'er its icy depths to move 


That blooms in solitary grace, 


E'en as a breeze of health, which brings 


And, faithful to its mouldering tower, 


Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. 


Waves in the banner's place ? 


And there is mercy yet ! I feel 


From those grey haunts renown hath pass'd, 


Its influence o'er my spirit steal; 


Time wins his heritage at last; 


How welcome were each pang below, 


This day of glory hath gone by, 


If guilt might be atoned by woe ! 


With all its pomp and minstrelsy; 


Think'st thou I yet may be forgiven ? 


Yet still the flower of golden hues 


Sliall prayers unclose the gate of Heaven? 


There loves its fragrance to diffuse, 


Oh I if it yet avail to plead, 


To fallen and forsaken things 


If judgment be not yet decreed. 


With constancy unalter'd clings. 


Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry. 


And, smiling o'er the wreck of state, 


Till paidon shall be seal'd on high! 


With beauty clothes the desolate. 


Yet, yet I shrink ! — will Mercy shed 




Her dews upon this fallen head ? 


E'en such was she, the fair-hair'd maia 


— Kneel, Ella, kneel ! till full and free 


In all her light of youth array'd. 


Descend forgiveness, won by thee I" 


Forsaking every joy below. 




To soothe a guilty parent's woe, 


They knelt : — before the Cross, that sign 


And clinging thus, in beauty's prime, 


Of love eternal and divine; 


To the dark ruin made by crime. 


That symbol, which so long hath stood 


Oh ! ne'er did Heaven's propitious eyeM 


A rock of strength, on time's dark flood, 
'i 


Smile on a purer cacrifiee ; 


;!. ui 



616 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Neer did young love, at duty's shrine, 

More nobly brighter hopes resign ! 

O'er her own pangs she brooded not, 

Nor sunk beneath her bitter lot ; 

No ! that pure spirit's lofty worth 

Still rose more buoyantly from earth. 

And drew from an eternal source 

Its gentle, yet triumphant force ; 

Roused by affliction's chastening might 

To energies more calmly bright, 

Like the wild harp of airy sigh, 

Woke by the storm to harmony ! 

He that in mountain holds hath sought 

A refuge for unconquer'd thought, 

A charter'd home, where Freedom's child 

Might rear her altars in the wild, 

And fix her quenchless torch on high, 

A beacon for Eternity ; 

Or they, whose martyr-spirits wage 

Proud war with Persecution's rage. 

And to the deserts bear the faith 

That bids them smile on chains and death ; 

Well may they draw, from all around, 

Of grandeur clothed in form and sound. 

From the deep power of eartli and sky, 

Wild nature's might of majesty. 

Strong energies, immortal fires. 

High hopes, magnificent desires ! 

But dark, terrific, and austere. 
To him doth Nature's mien appear. 
Who, 'midst her wilds, would seek repose 
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes ! 
For him the wind hatii music dread, 
A dirge-like voice tliat mourns the dead ; 
The forest's whisper breathes a tone. 
Appalling, as from worlds unknown ; 
The mystic gloom of wood and cave 
Is fiU'd with shadows of the grave ; 
In noon's deep calm the sunbeams dart 
A blaze that seems to search his heart; 
The pure, eternal stars of night, 
Upbraid him with their silent light, 
And the dread spirit, which pervades 
And hallows earth's most lonely shades, 
'In every scene, in every hour. 
Surrounds him with chastising power, 
With nameless fear his soul to thrill. 
Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still ! 

'T was the chilly close of an Autumn day, 
And the leaves fell thick o'er the wanderers' way. 
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound. 
Foretold the tempest gathering round. 
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread 
With a tinge of wild and frtormy red. 
That seem'd, through the twilight forest bowers 
Like the glare of a city's blazing towers ; 
But they, who far from cities fled, 
And shrunk from the print of human tread. 
Had reach'd a desert-scene unknown. 
So strangely wild, so deeply lone. 
That a nameless feeling, unconfess'd 
And undefined, their souls oppress'd. 
Rocks filed on rocks, around them hurl'd, 
Lay like the ruins of a world. 



Left by an earthquake's final throes 

In deep and desolate repose ; 

Things of eternity, whose forms 

Bore record of ten thousand storms ! 

While, rearing its colossal crest 

In sullen grandeur o'er the rest. 

One, like a pillar, vast and rude. 

Stood monarch of the solitude. 

Perchance by Roman conqueror's hand 

Th' enduring monument was plann'd ; 

Or Odin's'sons, in days gone by. 

Had shaped its rough immensity. 

To rear, 'midst mountain, rock, and wood, 

A temple meet for rites of blood. 

But they were gone, who might have told 

That secret of the times of old. 

And there, in silent scorn, it frown'd. 

O'er all its vast coevals round. 

Darkly those giant masses lower'd. 

Countless and motionless they tower'd ; 

No wild-fiower o'er their summits hung, 

No fountain from their caverns sprung ; 

Yet ever on the wanderers' ear 

Murmur'd a sound of waters near. 

With music deep of lulling falls. 

And louder gush, at intervals. 

Unknown its source — nor spring nor stream 

Caught the red sunset's lingering gleam, 

But ceaseless, from its hidden caves. 

Arose that mystic voice of waves. (1) 

Yet bosom'd 'midst that savage scene, 
One chosen spot of gentler mien 
Gave promise to the pilgrim's eye 
Of shelter from the tempest nigh. 
Glad sight ! the ivied cross it bore. 
The sculptured saint that crown'd its door ; 
Less welcome now were monarch's dome. 
Than that low cell, some hermit's home. 
Thither the outcasts bent their way. 
By the last lingering gleam of day, 
When from a cavern'd rock, which cast 
Deep shadows o'er them as they pass'd, 
A form, a warrior-form of might. 
As from earth's bosom, sprung to sight. 
His port was lofty — yet the heart 
Shrunk from him with recoiling start; 
His mien was youthful — yet his face 
Had nought of youth's ingenuous grace ; 
Nor chivalrous, nor tender thought, 
Its traces on his brow had wrought ; 
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye. 
But calm and cold severity, 
A spirit haughtily austere. 
Stranger to pity as to fear. 
It seem'd as pride had thrown a veil 
O'er that dark brow and visage pale. 
Leaving the searcher nought to guess. 
All was so fix'd and passionless. 

He spoke — and they who heard the tone 
Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. 
" I 've sought thee far in forest bowers, 
I 've sought thee long in peopled towers, 
I 've borne the dagger of th' Unknown 
Through scenss explored by me alone; 









MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 517 




My search is closed — nor toils, nor fears, 


And triumph'd, when the palm was won, 


Repel the servant of ths Seers ; 


For duty's task austerely done. 




We meet — 't is vain to strive or fly, 






Albert of Lindheim— thou must die !" 


But a feeling dread, and undefined, 
A mystic presage of the mind. 




Tlien with clasp'd hands the fair-hair'd maid 


With strange and sudden impulse ran 




Sank at his feet and wildly pray'd : — 


Ciiill through the heart of tlie dying man, 




" Stay, stay tiiee I sheatiic that lifted steel ! 


And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom 




Oil ! thou art human, and canst feel ! 


breath. 




Hear nic ! if e'er 'twas thine to prove 


And it seem'd as fear suspended death. 




The blessing of a parent's love ; 


And Nature from lier terrors drew 




By thine own father's hoary hair, 


Fresh energy, and vigour new. 




By her who gave thee being, spare ! 






Did they not, o'er thy infant years, 


" Thou said'st thy lonely bosom ne'er 




Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears ! 


Was conscious of a parent's care ; 




Young warrior ! thou wilt heed my prayers, 


Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood's years. 




As thoil would'st hope for grace to theirs !" 


Froze in thy soul the source of tears : 
The time will come, when thou, with me, 




But cold th' Avenger's look remain'd, 


The judgment-tlirone of God wilt see. 




His brow its rigid calm maintain'd : 


Oh ! by thy hopes of mercy, then. 




" Maiden ! 't is vain — my bosom ne'er 


By His blest love who died for men. 




Was conscious of a parent's care ; 


By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow. 




The nurture of my infant years 


Avenger ! I adjure thee now I 




Froze in my soul the source of tears ; 


To him who bleeds beneath thy steel, 




'T is not for me to pause or melt. 


Thy lineage and thy name reveal. 




Or feel as happier hearts have felt. 


And haste thee I for his closing ear 




Away ! the hour of fate goes by. 


Hath little more on earth to hear — 




Thy prayers are fruitless — he must die !" 


Haste ! for the spirit, almost flown. 
Is lingering for thy words alone." 




" Rise, Ella ! rise," with steadfast brow 






The father spoke; unshrinking now. 


Then first a shade, resembling fear. 




As if from heaven a martyr's strength 


Pass'd o'er th' Avenger's mien austere ; 




Had settled on his soul at length ; 


A nameless awe his features cross'd. 




" Kneel thou no more, my noble child. 


Soon in their haughty coldness lost. 




Thou by no taint of guilt defiled ; 






Kneel not to man ! — for mortal prayer. 


"What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild 




Oh I when did mortal vengeance spare ? 


And bid them tell tliee of their child ! 




Since hope of earthly aid is flown. 


Ask the rude winds, and angry skies. 




Lift thy pure hands to Heaven alone, 


Whose tempests were his lullabies ! 




And know, to calm thy suflTering heart, 


His chambers were the cave and wood. 




My spirit is resign'd to part ; 


His fosterers men of wrath and blood ; 




Trusting in Him, who reads and knows 


Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, 




Tills guilty breast, with all its woes. 


By wrongs to desperation driven ! 




Rise I I would bless thee once again, 


Who, in their pupil, now could trace 




Be still, be firm — for all is vainl" 


The features of a nobler race ? 

Yet such was mine ! — if one who cas 




And she was still — she heard him not. 


A look of anguish o'er the past. 




Her prayers were hush'd — her pangs forgot . 


Bore faithful record on the day. 




All thought, all memory pass'd away, 


When penitent in deatli he lay. 




Silent and motionless she lay, 


But still deep shades my prospects veil 




Li a brief death, a blest suspense. 


He died— and told but half the tale ; 




Alike of agony and sense. 


With him it sleeps — I only know 




Slie saw not when the dagger gleam'd 


Enough for stern and silent woe. 




In the last red light from the west that stream'd ; 


For vain ambition's deep regret. 




She mark'd not when the life-blood's flow 


For hopes deceived, deceiving yet. 




Came rushing to the mortal blow ; 


For dreams of pride that vainly tell 




While, unresisting, sunk her sire, 


How high a lot had suited well 




yet gather'd firmness to expire. 


The heir of some illustrious line. 




Mingling a warrior's courage high, 


Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine !" 




With a penitent's humility. 






And o'er him there th' Avenger stood. 


Then swift through Albert's bosom pass d 




And walch'd the victim's ebbing blood. 


One pang, the keenest and the last. 




Still calm, as if his faithful hand 


Ere with his spirit fled the fears, 




Had but obcy'd some just command, 


The sorrows, and the pangs of years. 




Some power, whose stern, yet righteous will. 


And, while his grey hairs swept the dust. 




lie dceia'd it virtue to fulfil, 
46 


Faltering he murmur'd, " Heaven in ]ust . 




1 — 1 



^ 



518 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



For thee that deed of guilt was done, 
By thee avenged, my Son ! my Son I" 

The day was closed — the moonbeam shed 
Light on tiie living and the dead. 
And as through rolling clouds it broke, 
Young Ella from her trance awoke — 
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know 
E'en more than all an orphan's woe. 
Oh ! ne'er did moonbeam's light serene 
With beauty clothe a sadder scene ! 
There, cold in death, the father slept, 
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept ! 
Yes ! she might weep— but one stood nigh, 
With horror in his tearless eye. 
That eye which ne'er again shall close 
In the deep quiet of repose ; 
No more on earth beholding aught, 
Save one dread vision, stamp'd on thought. 
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid 
His deeper woe had scarce snrvey'd, 
Till his wild voice reveal'd a tale. 
Which seem'd to bid the Heavens turn pale ! 
He call'd her, " Sister I" and the word 
In anguish breathed, in terror heard, 
Reveal'd enough — all else were weak. 
That sound a thousand pangs could speak. 
He knelt beside that breathless clay, 
Which, fix'd in utter stillness, lay — 
Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace, 
Each line of that unconscious face ; 
Knelt, till his eye could bear no more, 
Those marble features to explore ; 
Then, starting, turning, as to shun 
The image thus by Memory won, 
A wild farewell to her he bade. 
Who by the dead in silence pray'd, 
And, frenzied by his bitter doom. 
Fled thence — to find all earth a tomb ! 

Days pass'd away I — and Rhine's fair shore 
In the light of summer smiled once more ; 
The vines were purpling on the hill. 
And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still : 
There came a bark up the noble stream, 
With pennons that shed a golden gleam. 
With the flash of arms, and the voice of song, 
Gliding triumphantly along ; 
For warrior-forms were glittering there, 
Whose plumes waved light in tlie whispering air ; 
And as the tones of oar and wave 
Their measured cadence mingling gave, 
'T was thus th' exulting chorus rose. 
While many an echo swell'd the close : — 

From the fields where dead and dying, 
On their batile-bier are lying. 
Where the blood unstanch'd is gushing. 
Where the steed uncheckM is rushing. 
Trampling o'er the noble-hearted, 
Ere the spirit yet be parted ; 
Where each breath of Heaven is swaying 
Knightly plumes and banners playing. 
And the clarion's music swelling 
Oalls the vulture from his dwelling; 



He comes, with trophies worthy of his Iv le, 
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine ! 
To his own fair woods, enclosing 
Vales in sunny peace reposing. 
Where his native stream is laving 
Banks, with golden harvests waving, 
And the summer light is sleeping 
On the grape, through tendrils peeping; 
To the halls where harps arc ringing, 
Bards the praise of warriors singing. 
Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, 
Joyous voices mingling sweetly ; 
Where the cheek of mirth is glowing. 
And the wine-cup brightly flowing, 
He comes, with tropliies worthy of his line 
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine. 

He came — he sought his Ella's bowers, 
He traversed Lindheim's lonely towers ; 
But voice and footstep thence had fled, 
As from the dwellings of the dead. 
And the sounds of human joy and woe 
Gave place to the moan of the wave below 
The banner still the rampart crown'd. 
But the tall rank grass waved thick around 
Still hung the arms of a race gone by. 
In the blazon'd halls of their ancestry ; 
But they caught no more, at fall of night. 
The wavering flash of the torch's light; 
And they sent tlieir echoes forth no more, 
To the Minnesinger's (2) tuneful lore. 
For the hands that touch'd the harp were gone 
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone ; 
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, 
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, 
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan, 
For life, and power, and b'feauty gone. 

The warrior turn'd from that silent scene, 
Where a voice of woe had welcome been. 
And his heart was heavy with boding thought 
As the forest-paths alone he sought. 
He reach'd a convent's fane, that stood 
Deep bosom'd in luxuriant wood ; 
Still, solemn, fair — it seem'd a spot 
Where earthly care might be all forgot. 
And sounds and dreams of Heaven alone, 
To musing spirit might be known. 

And sweet e'en then were the sounds that roso 
On the holy and profound repose. 
Oh ! they came o'er the warrior's breast, 
Like a glorious anthem of the blest; 
And fear and sorrow died away, 
Before the full, majestic lay. 
He enter'd the secluded fane. 
Which sent forth that inspiring strain ; 
He gazed — the hallow'd pile's array 
Was that of some high festal day ; 
Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound. 
Flowers of all scents were strew'd around ; 
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh. 
Blest on the altar to smile and die ; 
And a fragrant cloud from the censer's breath 
i Half hid the sacred pomp beneath , 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



519 



And still the peal of choral song 
Swcll'd the resounding aisles along; 
Wakening-, in its triunipiiant flow, 
Deep echoes t'rom the graves below. 

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, 
Doth summer's rose that scene adorn? 
Wliy breathes the incense to the sky ? 
Why swells th' exulting harmony ? 
■ — And see'st thou not yon form, so light, 
It seems half floating on the sight, 
As if the whisper of a gale, 
That did but wave its snowy veil. 
Might bear it from th.e earth afar, 
A lovely, but receding star ? 
Know, tliat devotion's shrine, e'en now. 
Receives that youthful vestal's vow : 
For tills, high hymns, sweet odours rise, 
4 jubilee of sacrifice ! 
Mark yet a moment ! from her brow 
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, 
Ere yet a darker mantle hide 
The charms to Heaven thus sanctified; 
Stay tliee ! and catch their parting gleam, 
That ne'er shall fade from memory's dream. 
A moment! oh! to Ulric's soul 
Poised between hope and fear's control, 
What slow, unmeasured hours went by, 
Ere yet suspense grew certainty ; 
It came at length — once more that face 
Reveal'd o man its mournful grace ; 
A sunbeam on its features fell. 
As if to bear the world's farewell ; 
And doubt was o'er — his heart grew chill — 
'T was she — though changed — 't was Ella still ! 
Though now her once-rejoicing mien 
Was deeply, mournfully serene ; 
Though clouds her eye's blue lustre shaded. 
And the young cheek beneath had faded, 
Well, well he knew the form, which cast 
Light on his soul through all the past! 
'T was with him on the battle-plain, 
'Twas with him on the stormy main, 
'T was in his visions, when the shield 
Pillow'd his head on tented field; 
'T was a bright beam that led him on 
Where'er a triumph might be won, 
In danger as in glory nigh, 
An angel-guide to victory ! 

She caught his pale bewilder'd gaze 
Of grief half lost in fix'd amaze — 
Was it some vain illusion, wrought 
By frenzy of impassion'd thought ? 
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power 
To summon, in her wandering hour ? 
No ! it was he ! the lost, the mourn'd. 
Too deeply loved, too late return'd ! 

A fevcr'd blush, a sudden start. 
Spoke the last weakness of her heart: 
'T was vanquish'd soon — the hectic red 
A monrent flush'd her cheek, and fled. 



Once more serene — her sltadfast eye 
Look'd up as to Eternity ; 
Then gazed on Ulric with an air. 
That said — the home of Love is there I 

Yes ! there alone it smiled for him, 
Whose eye before that look grew dim ; 
Not long 't was his e'en thus to view 
The beauty of its calm adieu ; 
Soon o'er those features, brightly pale. 
Was cast th' impenetrable veil; 
And, if one human sigh were given 
By the pure bosom vow'd to Heaven, 
'T was lost, as many a murraur'd sound 
Of grief, " not loud, but deep," is drown'd, 
In hymns of joy, which proudly rise. 
To tell the calm untroubled skies. 
That earth hath banish'd care and woe, 
And man holds festivals below ! 



NOTES. 

Note 1, page 516, col. 2. 

The original of the scene here described is pre- 
sented by the mountain called the Feldberg, in 
the Bergstrasse : — " Des masses enormes de ro- 
chers, entassees I'une sur I'autre depuis le sonimet 
de la montagne, jusqu'^, son pied, viennent y 
presenter un aspect superbe qu' aucune descrip- 
tion ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des 
geans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des 
montagnes, lanc^rent les uns sur les autres ces 
enormes glasses de rochers. On arrive, avec beau- 
coup de peine, jusqu'au sommet du Feldberg, en 
suivant un sentier qui passe k cote de cette chaine 
de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruil 
sourd, qui parait venir d'un ruisseau au dessous 
des rochers ; mais on a beau descendre, en se 
glissant &, travers les ouvertures qui s'y trouvent, 
on ne decouvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, 
dite Riesensaule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu'& 
la moitie de la montagne ; c'est un bloc de granit 
taille, d'une longueur de 30 pieds et d'un diametre 
de 4 pieds. II y a plus de probabilile de croire 
que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce 
bloc une colonne pour I'eriger en I'honneur de 
leur dieu Odin, que de pretendre, comme le font 
plusieurs auteurs, que les Remains aient eu le 
dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On 
voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d'une forme 
presque carr6e qu' on appelle Eiesenaltar (autel 
du geant) qui, &, en juger par sa grosseur et sa 
forme, 6tait destin6 &, servir de piedestal a la co 
lonne susdite." — Manuel pour les Vryagems sui 
le Rhin. 

Note 2, page oj.3, col. 2 

Minnesingers (bards of love), the appellation 
of the German minstrels in the Middle Ages. 



520 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 

FROM SISMONDl'S " HTTERATURE DU MIDI." 

ViNCENZo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is ac- 
knowledged, by the unanimous consent of the 
Italians, as the greatest of their jiving poets. 
Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is 
always actuated by the impulse of the moment. 
Whatever he feels, is felt with the most enthu- 
siastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his 
thoughts — they are present, and clothed with 
life — before him, and a flexible and harmonious 
language is always at his command to paint thein 
with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry 
IS only another species of painting, he makes tlie 
art of the poet consist in rendering apparent to 
the eyes of all the pictures created liy his imagi- 
nation for himself; and he permits not a verse to 
escape him which does not contain an image. 
Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has 
restored to the character of Italian poetry those 
severe and exalted beauties by which it was dis- 
tinguished at its birth ; and he proceeds from one 
picture to another with a grandeur and dignity 
peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with 
something so lofty in his manner and style of 
writing, the heart of so impassioned a character 
should not be regulated by principles of greater 
consistency. In many other poets, this defect 
might pass unobserved : but circumstances have 
thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of 
Monti ; and his glory, as a poet, is attached to 
works wiiich display him in continual opposition 
to himself. Writing in the midst of the various 
Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen po- 
litical subjects for his compositions, and he has 
successively celebrated opposite parties in propor- 
tion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justi- 
fication, that he composes as an improvisatore, and 
that his feelings becoming highly excited by the 
given theme, he seizes the political ideas it sug- 
gests, however foreign they may be to his indivi- 
dual sentiments.* In these political poems — the 
object and purport of which are so different — the 
invention and manner are, perhaps, but too simi- 
lar. The Basvigliana, or poem on the death of 
Basville, is the most celebrated ; but, since its ap- 
pearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who 
always imitated Dante, has now also very fre- 
quently imitated himself. 

* The observation of a French author {Le Ccnseur du Dic- 
aonnaire dcs Oiroucttes) on the general versatihty of poets, 
seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that 
it might almost be supposed to have been written for the ex- 
liress purpose of such an application. — " Le cerveau d'un 
poete est d'ufie cire molle et flexible, ou s'imprime naturelle- 
in^nt tout ce qui le flalte, le seduit, et ralimente. La muse du 
chant n'a pas de partie; c'est une etourdie sans consequence, 
3ui folatre egalement et sur de riches gazons et gur d'arides 
bujyeres. Un poete en delire chanle indifleremment Titus et 
Tnivmask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suede, et 
■^^-i'lr.hon la Vielleuse." 



Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was 
put to death at Rome by the people, for attempt 
ing, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite 
a sedition against the Pontifical government. 
Monti, who was then tlie poet of the Pope, as he 
has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at 
the moment of Basville's death, he is saved by a 
sudden repentance from the condemnation which 
his philosophical principles had merited. But, as 
a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the 
pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine 
Justice to traverse France, until the crimes of that 
country have received their due chastisement, and 
doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and re- 
verses to which lie has contributed, by assisting 
to extend the progress of the Revolution. 

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from pro- 
vince to province, that he may behold the desola- 
tion of his lovely couintry. He then conveys him 
to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings 
and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows 
him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon 
France, and avenge the blood of her king. The 
poem concludes before the issue of the contest is 
known. It is divided into four cantos of three 
hundred lines each, and written in te7-za rima, 
like the poem of Dante. Not only many expres- 
sions, epithets, and lines, are borrowed from the 
Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. 
An angel conducts Basville through the suffering 
world ; and this faithful guide, who consoles and 
supports the spectator-hero of the poem, acts pre- 
cisely the same part which is performed by Virgil 
in Dante. Basville himself, thinks, feels, and suf- 
fers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti 
has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary 
character ; he describes him as feeling more pity 
than remorse, and he seems to forget, in thus 
identifying himself with his hero, that he has at 
first represented Basville, and perhaps without 
foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolu- 
tionist. The Basvigliana is, perhaps, more re- 
markable than any other poem for the majesty of 
its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the 
richness of its colouring. In the first canto, the 
spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body : — 

Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes, 
Rest thou in deep and undisturb'd repose ; 
Till, at the last great day, from slumber's bed, 
Heaven's trumpet-summons shall awake the dead 

Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower. 
And soft the breeze's wing, till that dread hour ; 
Nor let the wand'rer, passing o'er thee, breathe 
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath. 

Sleep thou in peace ! beyond the funeral pyre, 
There live no flames of vengeance or of ire. 
And 'midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore, 
Where mercy's home hath been from days of yore. 

Thus, to its earthly form, the spirit cried. 
Then turn'd to follow its celestial guide. 
But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, 
A ling'ring step, and oft-reverted eye — ■ 



As when a child's reluctant feet obey 

Its niotlier's voice, and slowly leave its play. 

Nisrht o'er the ear (h her dewy veil had cast, 
\Vlicn Iroiii til' ctornal city's fowers they pass'd, 
And risiuqf in tiicir flight, on tliat proud dome, 
Whose walls cnshr'ne the guardian saint of Rome, 
EiO ! where a eheru.'^forin suhlimely towcr'd, 
But dreadful in his glory ! sternly lower'd 
Wratli in his kingly aspect : One he sceni'd 
Of the bright seven, wnose dazzling splendour 

beam'd 
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven. 
Seen in the dread, o'erwhelniing visions given 
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire 
Seem'd his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire, 
\nd his loose tresses, floating as he stood, 
A comet's glare, presaging war and blood. 
He waved his sword ; Its red, terrific light, 
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night, 
While his left hand sustaln'd a shield so vast. 
Far o'er the Vatican beneath was cast 
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume 
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom 
O'er Its young brood, as yet untaught to soar ; 
And while, all trembling at the whirlwind's roar. 
Each humbler bird sinks cowering in its nest. 
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast. 
They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high 
Breaks not their calm and proud security. 

In the Second Canto, Basville enters Paris with 
his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the 
execution of Louis XVI. 

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies 
Look'd fraught with omens, as to harmonize 
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round 
Not a leaf whlsper'd — and the only sound 
That broke the stillness was a streamlet's moan 
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone. 
As If a storm within the woodland bowers 
Wcie gathering. On they moved — and lo ! the 

towers 
Of a far city ! Nearer now they drew ; 
And all reveal'd, expanding on their view. 
The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes — 
Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose ! 



In the dark mantle of a cloud array'd, 
Viewless arid hush'd, the angel and the shade 
Etiter'd that evil city. Onward pass'd 
The heavenly being first, with brow o'ercast 
And trouljled mien, while In his glorious eyes 
Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. 
Pale with dismay, tlie trembling spirit saw 
Tiiat altcr'd aspect, and, In breathless awe, 
Mark'd the strange silence round. The deep- 
toned swell 
Of life's full tide was hush'd ; the sacred bell, 
Tiic clamorous anvil, mute ; all sounds were fled 
Of labour or of mirth, and In their stead 
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe, 
Enquiring glances, rumours whlsper'd low, 
2K 46* 



Questions half-utter'd, jealous looks that keep 
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep 
That weighs upon the heart ; and voices, heard 
At intervals, In tnany a broken word — 
Voices of mothers, trembling as they prcss'd 
Til' unconscious infant closer to their breast ; 
Voices of wives, with fond Imploring cries, 
And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs. 
On their own thresholds striving to detain 
Their fierce impatient lords ; but weak and vain 
Affection's gentle bonds, In that dread hour 
Of fate and fury — Love hath lost his power ! 
For evil spirits arc abroad, the air 
Breathes of their Influence ; Druid phantoms there, 
Fired by that thirst for victims, which of old 
Raged in their bosoms, fierce and uncontroU'd, 
Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey 
The deepest crime that e'er hath dimm'd the day 
Blood, human blood, hath stain'd their vests and 

hair. 
On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare. 
Scattering red showers around them I learning 

brands 
And serpent scourges in their restless hands 
Are wildly shaken ; others lift on high 
The steel, th' envenom'd bowl, and hurrying by 
With touch of fire, contagious fury dart 
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. 
Then comes the rush of crowds ! restrain'd no 

more. 
Fast from each home the fi-enzled inmates pour ; 
From every heart affrighted Mercy flies. 
While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. 
Then the earth trembles, as from street to street 
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, 
The roll of Vv^heels, all mingling In the breeze, 
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas 
Heard at the dead of midnight; or tlie moan 
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone 
Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press'J 
O wretched Basville ! on thy guilty breast ; 
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold 
Deatii's awful banner to the winds unfold! 
To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high, 
The dark impatience of the murderer's eye. 
Eager for crime ! And he, the great, the good, 
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood 
Dragg'd to a felon's death ! Yet still his mien, 
'Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene ; 
And his step falters not. O, hearts unmoved ! 
Where have you borne your monarch ? — He wIk 

loved — 
Loved you so well ! — Behold ! the sun grows pale 
Sliroudlng his glory In a tearful veil ; 
The misty air Is silent, as in dread. 
And the dim sky, with shadowy gloom o'erspread 
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest. 
Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest 

» * * * * » 

In that dread moment, to the fatal pile 
The regal victim came; and raised the while 
Mis patient glance, wiin such an aspect high 
So firm, so calm, in h"ly majesty. 
That e'en th' assassins' hearts a moment shoolt 
Before the grandeur of that kingly look-* 



522 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew'd, 
Ran througii the bosoms of the multitude. 
Like him, who, breathing- mercy till the last, 
Pray'd till the bitterness of death was past: 
E'en for his murderers pray'd, in that dark hour 
When his soul yielded to affliction's power; 
And the winds bore his dying cry abroad — 
" Hast thou forsaken me, my God ! my God ?" 
E'en thus the monarch stood ; his prayer arose, 
Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes — 
" To thee my spirit I commend," he cried ; 
"And my lost people. Father ! be their guide !" 

But the sharp steel descends — the blow is given, 
And answer'd by a thunder-peal from heaven ; 
Earth, stain'd with blood, convulsive terrors owns, 
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones ! 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



The Alcestis of Alfieri is said to have been the 
last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to 
a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which 
his former works present so few examples. It 
would appear as if the pure and exalted affection 
Dy which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was 
ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had 
impressed its whole character on this work, as a 
record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom 
his heart at length found a resting-place. Most 
of his earlier writings bear witness to that " fever 
at the core," that burning impatience of restraint, 
and those incessant and untaaieable aspirations af- 
ter a wider sphere of action, by which his youth 
was consumed ; but the poetry of Alcestis must 
find its echo in every heart which has known the 
power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of 
their dissolution. The interest of the piece, how- 
ever, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment 
allowed to languish, nor does the conjugal affec- 
tion, which forms the main-spring of the action, 
ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Me- 
tastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with 
all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued 
anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the 
calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the 
'iiasterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the ex- 
pression of mental or bodily suffering is never al- 
lowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sub- 
limity. The union of dignity and affection im- 
pressing more than earthly grandeur on the coun- 
tenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best il- 
lustration of this analogy. 

The following scene, in which Alcestis announ- 
ces t(\ Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon 
which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his 
Bon may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by 
the author, even in his most celebrated productions. 
Jt IS, however, to be feared that httle of its beauty 
can be transferred into a translation, as the severity 
of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must 
Hinder it dependent for many incommunicable at- 
'Jactions upon the melody of the original language. 



ACT I.— Scene IL . 
Alcestis, Pheres. 

Ale. Weep thou no more : O ! monarch, dry 
thy tears, 
For know, he shall not die; not now shall Fate 
Bereave thee of thy son. 

Phe. What mean thy words ? 
Hath then Apollo — is there then a hope ? 

Ale. Yes ! hope for thee — hope, by the voice an« 
nounced 
From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield 
To other lips the tidings, meet alone 
F,or thee to hear from mine. 

Phe. But say ! oh ! say, 
Shall then my son be spared ? 

Ale. He shall, to thee. 
Thus hath Apollo said — Alcestis thus 
Confirms the oracle — be thou secure. 

Phe. O sounds of joy ! He lives ! 

Ale. But not for this. 
Think not that e'en for this the stranger Joy 
Shall yet revisit those devoted walls. 

Phe. Can there be grief when from his bed of 
death 
Admetus rises ? What deep mystery lurks 
Within thy words ? What mean'st thou ! Gracious 

Heaven ! 
Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear st 
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear 
Transport and life in that glad oracle 
To his despairing sire ; thy cheek is tinged 
With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow. 
To the brief liglitning of a sudden joy, 
Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt 
In troubled silence — speak ! oh, speak ! 

Ale. The gods 
Themselves have limitations to their power 
Impassable, eternal — and their will 
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate : 
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life 
Of thy restored Admetus. 

Phe. In thy looks 
There is expression, more than in thy words, 
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, 

what terms 
Can render fatal to thyself and us. 
The rescued life of him thy soul adores ? 

Ale: O father ! could my silence aught avail 
To keep tliat fearful secret from thine ear. 
Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill'd 
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish ; 
And since too soon, too well it must be known, 
Hear it from me. 

Phe. Throughout my curdling veins 
Runs a cold, death-like horror; and I feel 
I am not all a father. In my heart 
Strive many deep affections. Thee I .ove, 
O fair and high-soul'd consort of my son ! 
More than a daughter ; and thine infant race, 
The cherish'd hope and glory of my age; 
And, unimpair'd by time, within my breast, 
High, holy, and unalterable love 
For her, the partner of my cares and joys. 
Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink tb>ee, then, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



523 



In what suspense, what agony of fear, 
I wait thy words ; for well, too well, I see 
T!iy li[)s are fraught with fatal aug-uries, 
To some one of my race. 

Ale. Death hatli his rights. 
Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers 
May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, 
Already seized, the noble victim lay. 
The heir of cmpii'e, in his glowing prime 
And noonday, struck : — Admetus, the revered. 
The bless'd,the loved, by all who own'd his sway — 
By his illustrious parents, by the realms 
Surrounding his, — and oh ! — what need to add, 
How much by his Alcestis ? — Such was he, 
Already in th' unsparing grasp of death 
Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence 
Hath snatch'd him, and another in his stead. 
Though not an equal — (who can equal him ?) 
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. 
Another, of his lineage or to him 
By closest bonds united, must descend 
To the dark realm of Orcus in his place, 
Who thus alone is saved. 

Phe. What do I hear ? 
Woe to us, woe ! — what victim ? — who shall be 
Accepted in his stead ? 

Ale. The dread exchange 
E'en now, O father ! hath been made ; the prey 
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him 
For whom 't is freely offer'd. Nor wilt thou, 
O mighty goddess of th' infernal shades! 
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, 
Disdain the victim. 

Phe. All prepared the prey ! 
And to our blood allied ! O Heaven ! — and yet 
Thou bad'st me weep no more ! 

Ale. Yes ! thus I said. 
And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep 
Thy son's, nor I deplore my husband's doom. 
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe 
Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard 
Than those his death had caused. — With some 

few tears. 
But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, 
E'en wliile the involuntary tribute lasts. 
The victim shall be honour'd who resign'd 
Life for Admetus. — Would'st thou know the prey. 
The vow'd, the willing, the devoted one, 
Offer'd and hallow'd to th' infernal gods. 
Father ! — 't is I. 

Phe. What hast thou done ? O Heaven ! 
What ha.st thou done? — And think'st thou he is 

saved 
By such a compact? — Think'st thou he can live 
Bereft of thee ?— Of thee, his light of life. 
His very soul ! — Of thee, beloved far more 
Than his loved parents — than his children more — 
More than himself? — Oh ! no, it shall not be ! 
Thou perish, O Alcestis ! in the flower 
Of thy young beauty ! — perish, and destroy 
Not him, not him alone, but us, but all, 
Wiio as a ch'ld adore thee ! Desolate 
Would be t!ie tli;-one, the kingdom, reft of thee. 
And think'st thou not of those whose tender years 
Demand thy f'.are? — Thy children! think of them! 
tiioii, the source of each domestic joy. 



Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives. 
His glory, his delight, tiiou shalt not die 
While I'can die for tliec ! — Mc, me alone, 
The oracle demands — a wither'd stem. 
Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. 
My race is run — the lulncss of my years. 
The faded hopes of age, and all the love 
Which hatii its dwelling in a father's heart. 
And the fond pity, half with wonder blent. 
Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifla 
So richly is endow'd ; — all, all unite 
To grave in adamant the just decree. 
That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live ! 
Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis — live ! 
Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass 
An aged sire's devotedness. 

Ale. I know 
Thy lofly soul, thy fond paternal love ; 
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain 
Strove to anticipate their high resolves. 
But if in silence I have heard thy words. 
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own 
They may not be withstood. 

Phe. What canst thou say 
Which I should hear ? I go, resolved to save 
Him who with thee would perish ; — to the shrine 
E'en now I fly. 

Ale. Stay, stay thee ! 'tis too late. 
Already hath consenting Proserpine, 
From the remote abysses of her realms, 
Heard and accepted the terrific vow 
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties. 
To death. And I am firm, and well I know 
None can deprive me of that awful right 
That vow hath won. 

* ^ * * * * » 

Yes ! thou may'st weep my fate : 
Mourn for me, father ! but thou canst not blame 
My lofty purpose. Oh ! the more endear'd 
My life by every tie — the more I feel 
Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice 
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend 
To the dim shadowy regions of the dead 
A guest more honour'd. 

****** 

In thy presence here 
Again I utter tiie tremendous vow. 
Now more than half fiilfiird. I feel, I know 
Its dread effects. Througli all my burnino- veins 
Th' insatiate feter revels. Doubt is o'er. 
The Monarch oMhe Dead hath heard — he calls, 
He summons me away — and thou art saved, 
O my Admetus ! 

In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, 
with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to com 
plete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proscr 
pine's statue. The following scene ensues between 
her and Admetus. 

Ale. Hero, O my faithful handmaids ! at (he fern 
Of Proserpine's dread imnge spread my coucl, 
For I myself e'en now nnist offer here 
The victim she requires. And yon, meanwhile 
My children I seek your sire. Behold him there 



524 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins 
Health's genial current flows once more, as free 
As in his brightest days : and he shall live — 
Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, 
And with your innocent encircling arms 
Twine round hira fondly. 

Earn. Can it be indeed, , 

Father, loved father ! that we see thee thus 
Restored ? What joy is ours ! 

Adm. There is no joy ! 
Speak not of joy ! away, away ! my grief 
Is wild and desperate ; cling to me no more ! 
I know not of affection, and I feel 
No more a father. 

Eum. Oh ! what words are these ? 
Are we no more thy children? Are we not 
Thine own ? Sweet sister ! twine around his neck 
More close ; he must return the fond embrace. 

Adm. O children ! O my children ! to my soul 
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts 
That pierce it to the quick. I can no more 
Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound 
Of your soft accents but too well recalls 
The voice which was the music of my life. 
Alcestis ! my Alcestis ! — was she not 
Of all her sex the flovv?er ? Was woman e'er 
Adored like her before ? Yet this is she. 
The cold of heart, th' ungrateful, who hath left 
Her husband and her infants! This is she, 

my deserted children ! who at once 
Bereaves you of your parents. 

Ale. Woe is me! 

1 hear the bitter and reproachful cries 

Of my despairing lord. With life's last powers, 
O ! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach, 
My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps 
To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence, 
That he may hear and see me. 

Adm. Is it thou ? 
And do I see thee still? and com'st thou thus 
To comfort me, Alcestis ? Must I hear 
The dying accents thus ? Alas ! return 
To thy sad couch, return ! 't is meet for me 
There by thy side for ever to remain. 

Ale. For me thy care is vain. Though meet 
for thee — 

Adm. O voice ! O looks of death ! are these, are 
these, 
Thus darkly shrouded with mortality. 
The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life 
Of my fond soul ■? Alas ! how faint a ray 
Falls from their native orbs, so brilliant once, 
Upon my drooping brow ! How heavily. 
With what a weight of death thy languid voice 
Sinks on my heart ! too faithful far, too fond. 
Alcestis ! thou art dying — and for me ! 
* * * * 

Alcestis ! and thy feeble hand supports 
With its last power, supports my sinking head. 
E'en now, while death is on thee ! Oh ! the touch 
Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart : 
1 rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, 
The image of yon ruthless Deity, 
Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, 
There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall. 



Vain is each obstacle — In vain the gods 
Themselves would check my fury — I am lord 
Of my own days — and thus I swear — 

Ale. Yes 1 swear, 
Admetus! for thy children to sustain 
The load of life. All other impious vows, 
Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will 
Of tliose who rule on high, might'st dare to form 
Within thy breast; thy lip, by them enchain'd, 
Would vainly seek to utter. — See'st thou not, 
It is from them the inspiration flows. 
Which in my language breathes ? They lend me 

power, 
They bid me through thy strengthen'd soul trans- 
fuse 
High courage, noble constancy. Submit ; 
Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm ; 
Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme 
To which I now approach, from whom but thee 
Should comfort be derived ? Afflict me not. 
In such an hour, with anguish worse than death, 
O faithful and beloved, support me still ! 



The choruses with which this tragedy is inter- 
spersed, are distinguished for their melody and 
classic beauty. The following translation will 
give our readers a faint idea of the one by which 
the third act is concluded. 

Ale. My children ! all is finish'd. Now, fare 
well ! 
To thy fond care, O Pheres ! I commit 
My widow'd lord : forsake him not. 

Eum. Alas ! 
Sweet mother ! wilt thou leave us? from thy side 
Are we for ever parted ? 

Phe. Tears forbid 
All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense. 
More lifeless than the dying victim, see 
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet. 
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight 
Of his Alcestis. 

Ale. O my handmaids ! still 
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose 
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs 
When death's last pang is o'er. 

Chorus. 

Alas ! how weak 
Her struggling voice! that last keen pang is near 

Peace, mourners, peace ! 
Be hush'd, be silent, in this hour of dread ! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pangs ; let tears unheard be shed. 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, O friend ! 

Upon thy faithful breast. 
The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest ! 

And thou assistance lend 

To close the languid eye. 
Still beautiful in life's last agony. 

Alas ! how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5ilb 



Death ! death ! Ihy work complete ! 

Let thy sad hour bo fleet, 

Speed, hi thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, tlic high in heart, 
Th' adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 

Chorus of Admetus. 

'T is not enough, oh no ! 
To hide the seene of anguisli from his eyes ; 

Still must our silent b^md 

Around liim watcliful stand, 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, 
Tiiat his ear catcli not griefs funereal cries. 

Yet, yet hope is not dead, 

All is not lost below, 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Ott when all joy is fled. 

Heaven lends support to those 
Who on its care in pious hope repose. 

Tlien to tlie blessed skies 
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. 

Pray ! bow the knee, and pray ! 
What other task have mortals, born to tears. 
Whom fate controls with adamantine sway ? 

O ruler of the spheres ! 
Jove I Jove ! enthroned immortally on high, 

Our supplication hear I 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes 
Him, who nor footstep moves nor lifts his eye. 

But as a child, which only knows 

Its father to revere. 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA; 

A TRAGEDY. 

BY ALESSANDRO MANZONL 



Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in 
Carmagnola, from whence his nom de guerre was 
derived, was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet 
a boy, and employed in the care of flocks and 
herds, the lofty character of his countenance was 
observed by a soldier of fortune, who. invited the 
youth' to forsake his rustic occupations, and ac- 
company him to the busier scenes of the camp. 
His persuasions were successful, and Francesco 
entered with him into tiie service of FacinoCane, 
Lord of Alessandria. At the time when Facino 
died, leaving fourteen cities acquired by conquest 
to Beatrice di Tenda, his wife, Francesco di Car- 
magnola, was amongst the most distinguislicd of 
h.is captuins. Beatrice afterwards marrying Phi- 
lip Vir-.conti, Duke of Milan (who rewarded her 
by an ignominious death for the regal dowry she 
had conferred upon liim), Carmngnola entered his 
army at the same time, and liaving, by iiis emi- 
nent services, firmly established tlie tolterins: 
power of lliat prince, received from him the title 
of Count, and was placed at the iiead of all his 
forces. Tlic natural caprice and ingratitude of Phi- 
lip's disposition, however, at length prevailed, and 



Carmagnola, disgusted with the evident proof of 
his wavering friendship and doubtful faiih, left his 
service and his territories, and after a variety of 
adventures, took refuge in Venice. 'J'hither the 
treachery of the Duke pursued him, and emissa- 
ries were employed to procure his assassination. 
The plot, however, proved abortive, and Carimig- 
nola was elected captain-general of the Veneliiin 
armies, during the league formed by that republic 
against the Duke of Milan. The war was at first 
carried on with much spirit and success, and the 
battle of Maclodio, gained by Carmagnola, was 
one of the most important and decisive aclions of 
those times. The night after the combat, the vic- 
torious soldiers gave liberty to almost all their 
prisoners. The Venetian envoys having made a 
complaint on this subject to the Count, he enquired 
what was become of the captives; and upon being 
informed that all, except four hundred, had been 
set free, he gave orders that the remaining ones 
also should be released immediately, according to 
the custom which prevailed amongst the armies 
of those days, the object of which was to prevent 
a speedy termination, of the war. This proceed, 
ing of Carmagnola's occasioned much distrust 
and irritation in the minds of the Venetian rulers, 
and their displeasure was increased when the ar- 
mada of the republic, commanded by II Trevisani, 
was defeated upon the Po, without any attemjjt in 
its favour having been made by the Count. . The 
failure of their attempt upon Cremona was also 
imputed to him as a crime, and the Senate, re- 
solving to free themselves from a powerful chief, 
now become an object of suspicion, al'ter many 
deliberations on the best method of carrying their 
designs into effect, at length determined to invite 
him to Venice, under pretence of consulting hiui 
on their negotiations for peace. He obeyed their 
summons without hesitation or mistrust, and was 
every where received witft extraordinary honours 
during the course of his journey. On his arrival 
at Venice, and before he entered his own house, 
eight gentlemen were sent to meet him, by whom 
he was escorted to St. Mark's Place. When he 
was introduced into the dueal palace, his attend- 
ants were dismissed, and informed that he would 
be in private witli the Doge for a considerable 
time. He was arrested in the palace, then ex- 
amined by the Secret Council, put to the torture, 
which a wound he had received in the service of 
the Republic rendered still more agonizing, and 
condemned to death. On (he 5th May, 14.32, he 
was conducted to execution, with liis n'outh gag- 
ged, and beheaded between the two cc.iumns of 
St. Mark's Place. With regard to the innocence 
or guilt of this distinguished character, there ex- 
ists no authentic information. The autLca- of the 
tragedy, which we are about to analyse, has cho 
sen to represent him as entirely innocent, and 
probability at least is on this side. It is p )ssiblt, 
that the haughtiness of an aspiring wan mr, .ic- 
customcd to command, and impatient of Ci ntrnls. 
might iiave been the principal cause of ofience to 
the Venetians : or perhaps their jealousy m as ex- 
cited by his increasing power over tlie inirils ol 
an obedient army ; and, not considering it •-xuo 



52b' 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



dient to displace him, they resolved upon his de- 
struction. 

This tragedy, which is formed upon tlie model 
of the English and German drama, comprises the 
liistory of Carmagnola's life, from the day on 
which lie was made commander of the Venetian 
armies, to that of his execution, thus embracing- a 
period of about seven years. The extracts we 
are about to present to our readers, will enable 
them to form their own opinion of a piece which 
has exi.ited so much attention in Italy. The first 
act opens in Venice, in the hall of the Senate. 
The Doge proposes that the Count di Carmagnola 
should be consulted on the projected league be- 
tween the Republic and the Florentines, against 
the Duke of Milan. To this all agree ; and the 
Count is introduced. He begins by justifying his 
conduct from the imputations to which it might 
be liable, in consequence of his appearing as the 
enemy of the Prince whom he had so recently 
served : — 



-He cast me down 



From the high place my blood had dearly won, 
And when I sought his presence, to appeal- 
For justice there, 't was vain ! my foes had form'd 
'Around his throne a barrier ; e'en my life 
Became the mark of hatred, but in tins 
Their hopes have fail'd — I gave them not the time. 
My life I — I stand prepared to yield it up 
On the proud field, and in some noble cause 
For glory well exchanged ; but not a prey, 
Not to be caught ignobly in the toils 
Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain'd 
VVith you a place of refuge ; yet e'en here 
His snares were cast around me. Now all lies 
Are broke between us ; to an open foe, 
An open foe I come. 

He then gives counsel in favour of war, and 
retires, leaving the senate engaged in deliberation. 
War is resolved upon, and he is elected comman- 
der. The fourth scene represents the house of 
Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble; but its 
character is much more that of English than of 
Italian poetry, and may be traced, without difh- 
culty, to the celebrated monologue of Hamlet. 

A leader — or a fugitive ! — to drag 

Slow years along in idle vacancy. 

As a worn veteran living on the fame 

Of former deeds ; to offer humble prayers 

And blessings for protection — owing all 

Yet left me of existence to the might 

Of other swords, dependent on some arm. 

Which soon may cast me off" — or on the field 

To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life 

Rush proudly through my veins — to hail again 

My lofty star, and at the trumpet's voice 

To wake! to rule ! to conquer! — Which must be 

M}' fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace 

Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling 

Still poorly to ignoble safety here. 

Secluded as a homicide, who cowers 

Within a temnlo's precincts? Shall not he 

Who made a amgdom's fate, control his own ? 



Is there not one among the many lords 

Of this divided Italy — not one 

With soul enough to envy that bright crown 

Encircling Philip's head ? And know they not 

' T was won by me from many a tyrant's grasp, 

Snatch'd by my hand, and placed upon the brow 

Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns 

Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize 

On him who best shall call the prowess forth 

Which slumbers in my arm ? 

Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, 
now arrives, and announces to him that war is 
resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the 
command of the armies, at the same time advising 
him to act with caution towards his enemies in 
the Republic. 

Car. Think'st thou I know not whom to deem 
my foes ? 
Ay, I could number all. 

Mar. And know'st thou, too, 
What fault hath made them such? — 'Tis, that 

thou art 
So high above them ; 'tis, that thy disdain 
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one 
Hath done thee wrong ; but who, when so resolved, 
Finds not his time to injure ? — In thy thoughts, 
Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs 
But they remember thee. The high in soul 
Scorn and forget ; but to the grovelling heart 
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not. 
Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. 
I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul 
Revolts indignantly — thou know'st it well ; 
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet 
For the most lofty nature, — there is power 
Of winning meaner minds, without descent 
From the high spirit's glorious eminence, — 
And would'st thou seek that magic, it were thine. 

The first scene of the second act represents part 
of the Duke of Milan's camp near Maclodia 
Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, 
aCondottiere of great distinction, are deliberating 
upon the state of the war. Pergola considers it 
imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a contrary 
opinion. They are joined by Sforza and Forte- 
braccio, who are impatient for action, and Torello, 
who endeavours to convince them of its inexpe- 
diency, ' 

Sfo. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul 
Which fires each soldier's eye ? 

Tor. I mark'd it well. 
I heard th' impatient shout, th' exulting voice 
Of Hope and Courage, and I turn'd aside. 
That on my brow the warrior might not read 
Th' involuntary thought, whose sudden gloom 
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought, 
That this vain semblance of delusive joy 
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought 
On wasted valour doom'd to perish here. 

***** 
For these — what boots it to disguise the truth ? — ' 
These are no wars in which, for all things loved. 



And precious, and revered — for all the ties 
CliiiLring' around the heart — for those whose smile 
Makes home so lovely — lor his native land, 
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fiji^hls ! 
These arc no wars in wliieh the chiui'taiu's aim 
Is hut to station his devoted bands, 
And theirs, tiius fix'd — to die ! It is our fate 
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe 
Fury, not fortitude. Witli burninor hearts 
They rush wiiere Victory smiling waves them on; 
But if delay'd, if between flight and death. 
Pausing they stand — is tiiere no eause to doubt 
What choice were theirs ? And but too well our 

hearts 
That choice might here foresee. Oh ! evil times, 
When for the leader, care augments, the more 
Bright glory fades away ! — Yet, once again, 
This is no field for us. 

After various debates, Malatesti resolves to at- 
tack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes of 
the second act represent the tent of the Count in 
the Venetian eamp, and his preparations for bat- 
tle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric poetry 
is introduced, in winch the battle is described, and 
its fital effects lamented, with all the feeling of a 
patriot and a Christian. It appears to us, how- 
ever, that this ode, hymn, or chorus as the author 
has entitled it, striking as its effect may be in a 
separate recitation, produces a much less powerful 
impression in the situation it occupies at present. 
It is even necessary, in order to appreciate its 
singular beauty, that it should be reperused, as a 
thing detached from the tragedj'. The transition 
is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic action, 
m which the characters are represented as clothed 
with existence, and passing before us with all 
their contending motives and feelings laid open 
to our inspection, to the comparative coldness of a 
Syric piece, where the author's imagination expa- 
tiates alone. The poet may have been led into 
this error by a definition of Schlegel's, who, speak- 
ing of the Greek choruses, gives it as his opinion, 
that " the chorus is to be considered as a personi- 
fication of the moral thoughts inspired by the 
action — as the organ of the poet, who speaks in 
the name of the whole human race. The chorus, 
in siiort, is the ideal spectator." 

But the fact was not exactly thus : The Greek 
chorus was composed of real characters, and ex- 
pressed the sentiments of the people before whose 
eyes the action was imagined to be passing; thus 
the true spectator, after witnessing in representa- 
tion the triumphs or misfortunes of kings and he- 
roes, heard from the chorus the idea supposed to 
be entertained on the subject by the more enlight- 
ened part of the multitude. If the author, avail- 
ing himself of his talent for lyric poetry, and 
varying the measure in conformity to tiie subject, 
had brought his chorus into action, introducing, 
for exam()le, a veteran looking down upon tlie 
battle from an eminence, and describing its vicis- 
situdes to the persons below, with whom he might 
interciiange a variety of national and moral re- 
flections, it appears to us that the dramatic effect 
would have been considerably heightened, and 



the assertion that the Greek chorus is not com- 
patible with the system of the modern drama, 
possibly disproved. We shall present our readers 
with tiie e'llire chorus of whicii we have spoken, 
as a piece to be read separately, and one to which 
the following title would be much more appro 
priate. 

The Battle of Maclodio {or Macalo), an Ode* 

The third act, which passes entirely in the teni 
of the Count, is composed of long discourses be 
tween Carmagnola and tlie Venetian envoys. One 
of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after 
his victory, which he haughtily refuses to do, de- 
claring that he will not leave the field until 'he 
has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses. 
Anotlier complains that the Condoltieri and the 
soldiers have released their prisoners, to which he 
replies, that it is an established military custom; 
and, sending for the remaining four hundred cap. 
tives, he gives them their liberty also. This act, 
which terminates with the suspicious observations 
of the envoys on Carmagnola's conduct, is rather 
barren of interest, though the episode of tho 
younger Pergola, which we shall lay before our 
readers, is happily imagined. 

As the prisoners are departing, the Count ob- 
serves the younger Pergola, and stops him. 

Car. Thou art not, youth ! 
One to be number'd with the vulgar crowd- 
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, w 3uld 

speak 
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest 
Thou minglest, and art silent! 

Per, Silence best, 

chief! befits the vanquish'd. 
Car. Bearing up 

Against thy fate tiius proudly, thou art proved 
Worthy a better star. Thy name? 

Per. 'T is one 
Whose heritage doth impose no common task 
On him that bears it. One, which to adorn 
With brighter blazonry were hard emprize. 
My name is Pergola. 

Car, And art thou then 
That warrior's son ? 

Per. I am. 

Car. Approach ! embrace 
Thy father's early friend ! What thou art now 

1 was, w^hen first we met. Oh ! thou dost bring 
Back on my heart remembrance of the days, 
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days 
Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou ! 
My dawn, 't is true, with brighter omens smiled, 
But still fiiir Fortune's glorious promises 

Are for the brave, and though delay'd awhile 
Slic soon or late fulfils them. Youth ! salute 
Thy sire for me ; and say, though not of thee 
I asii'd it, yet iny heart is well assured 
He counscll'd not this battle. 

Per. Oil ! he gave 
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words 
Were spoken to the winds. 



* Tliis piece wll be found at irage 303, antt. 



528 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Car. Lament thou not. 
Upon his chieftain's head the shame will rest 
Of this defeat ; and he who firmly stood 
Fix'd at his post of peril, hath beg-un 
A soldier's race full nobly. Follow me, 
I will restore thy sword. 

The fourth act is occupied by the machinations 
of the Count's enemies at Venice ; and the jealous 
and complicated policy of that Republic, and the 
despotic authorit}' of the Council of Ten, are skil- 
fully developed in many of the scenes. [ 

The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice 
in the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola is ' 
consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace of- 
fered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is re- 
ceived with disdain, and after various insults he is 
accused of treason. His astonisinnent and indig- 
nation at this unexpected charge are expressed 
with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence. 

Car. A traitor ! I ! — that name of infamy 
Reaches not me. Let him the title bear 
Who best deserves such meed — it is not mine. 
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit. 
For such my part is here ; yet would I not 
Exchange that name, for 'tis the worthiest still. 
^ traitor ! — I retrace in thought the time, 
When for your cause I fought; 'tis all one path 
Strevv'd o'er with flowers. Point out the day on 

which 
A traitor's deeds were mine; the day which pass'd 
l[''nmark'd by thanks, and praise, and promises 
Of iiigh reward ! What more? Behold me here ! 
And when I came to seeming honour call'd. 
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice 
Of love, and gra,teful zeal, and trusting faith — 
Of trusting faith 1 — Oh, no ! Doth he who comes 
Th' invited guest of friendship, dream of faith ? 
I came to be ensnared ! Well ! it is done, 
And be it so ! but since deceitful hate 
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, 
Praise be to Heaven ! an open field at last 
Is spread before us. Now 't is yours to speak, 
Mine to defend my cause; declare ye then 
My treasons ! 

Doge. By the secret college soon 
All shall be told thee. 

Car. I appeal not there. 
What I have done -for you hath all been done 
In the brig-ht noonday, and its tale shall not 
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior's deeds 
Warriors alone should judge ; and such I choose 
To be mine arbiters ; my proud defence 
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. 

Doge. Tlie lime for choice is past. 

Car. What! Is there force 
Employ'd against me? — Guards! {raising his 
voice.) 

Doge. They are not nigh. 
Soldiers I (enter armed men.') 
Thy guards are these. 

Car. I am betray'd ! 

Doge. 'T was then a thought of wisdom to dis 
perse 
Th? followers. Well and justly was it deem'd 



That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised, 
Might prove a rebel too. 

Car. E'<:;n as ye list. 
Now be it yours to charge me. 

Doge. Bear him hence, 
Before the secret college. 

Car. Hear me yet 
One moment first. That ye have doom'd my death 
I well perceive ; but with that death ye doom 
Your own eternal shame. Far o'er these towers 
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats 
The banner of the Lion, in its pride 
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know 
I bore it thus to empire. Here, 'tis true. 
No voice will speak men's thoughts ; but far be- 
yond 
The limits of your sway, in other scenes, 
Where that still, speechless terror Lath not reach'd, 
Which is your sceptre's attribute, my deeds, 
And your reward, will live in chronicles 
For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect 
Your annals, and the future ! Ye will need 
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours ? 
Forget not, though your captive now I stand, 
I was not born your subject. No ! my birth 
Was 'midst a warlike people, one in soul. 
And watchful o'er its rights, and used to deem 
The honour of each citizen its own. 
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard ? 
There is some treachery here. Our common foes 
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know 
I have been faithful still. There yet is time. 

Doge. The time is past. When thou didst me- 
ditate 
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy 
Those destined to chastise it, then the hour 
Of foresight should have been. 

Car. O mean in soul ! 
And dost thou dare to think a warrior's breast 
For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon 
Learn how to die. Go ! When the hour of fate 
On thy vile couch o'ertakes thee, thou wilt meet 
Its summons with far other mien than such 
As I shall bear to ignominious death. 

Scene II. — The House of Carmagnola. 
Antonietta, Matilda. 

Mat. The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and 
yet 
My father comes not ! 

Ant. Ah ! thou hast not learn'd 
By sad experience, with how slow a pace 
Joys ever come ; expected long, and oft 
Deceiving expectation ! while the steps 
Of grief o'ertake us, ere we dream them niga 
But night is past, the long and lingering hours 
Of hope deferr'd are o'er, and those of bliss 
Must soon succeed, A few short moments more, 
And he is with us. E'en from this delay 
I augur well. A council held so long 
Must be to give us peace. He will be ours, 
Perhaps for years our own. 

Mat. O mother ! thus 
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, 
And days in all the sickness of suspense 




Our anxious love hath pass'd. It is full time 
Tliat eacii sad nioinent, at each ruinour'd tale, 
Each idle murmur of the people's voice, 
We should not longer tremble, that no more 
This tliouglit should haunt our souls — E'en now, 

perchance, 
He for wlioui tlius our liearts are yearning — dies ! 

Am. Oh ! fearful thought ! — but vain and dis- 
tant now ! 
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with 

grief. 
Hast tliou forgot the day, when proudly led 
In triumph 'midst the noble and the brave, 
Thy glorious father to the temple bore 
The banners won in battle from his foes ? 

Mat. A day to be remember'd ! 

Ant. By his side 
Each seem'd inferior. Every breath of air 
Swell'd with his echoing name ; and we, the while, 
Stalion'd on high and sever'd from the throng. 
Gazed on tliat one who drew the gaze of all. 
While with the tide of rapture half o'erwhelm'd. 
Our hearts beat high, and whisper'd — " We are 
his." 

Mat. Moments of joy ! 

Ant, What have we done, my child. 
To merit sucli ? Heaven, for so high a fate. 
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow 
Inscribed a lofty name, a name so bright. 
That he to whom thou bear'st the gift, whate'er 
His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark 
For envy is the glory of our lot! 
And we should weigh its joys against these hours 
Of fear and sorrow. 

Blat. They are past e'en now. 
Ilark ! 't was the sound of oars ! — it swells — 't is 

hush'd I 
The gates unclose — O mother ! I behold 
A warrior clad in mail — he comes, 't is he ! 

Aiit. Wliom should it be if not himself? — my 
husband! {She comes forward.) 

{Enter Gonzaga and others.) 

Ant. Gonzaga ! — where is he we look'd for ? 
Where ? 
Thou answerest not ! — O heaven ! thy looks are 

frauglit 
With prophecies of woe ! 

Gon. Alas ! too true 
The omens they reveal ! 

Mat. Of woe to whom ! 

Gon. Oh ! why hath such a task of bitterness 
Fallen to my lot ? 

Ant. Thou would'st be pitiful. 
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense ; 
Speak ! I adjure thee, in the name of God ! 
VVhere is my husband ? 

Gon. Heaven sustain your souls 
Witii fortitude to bear the tale ! — my chief 

Mnt. Is he return'd unto the field ? 

Gon. Alas ! 
Thither the warrior shall return no more. 
I'lie senate's wrath is on him. He is now 
A prisoner ! 

Ant. He is a prisoner ! — and for what ? 

Gon. He is accused of treason. 
47 



Mat. Treason! He 
A traitor ! — Oil ! my father ! 

Ant. Haste ! proceed. 
And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for 

all. 
Say, what sliall be his sentence? 

Gon. From my lips 
It shall not be reveal'd. 

Ant. Oh ! he is slain ! 

Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fix'd. 

Ant. He lives ! 
Weep not, my daughter! 'tis the time to act. 
For pity's salce, Gonzaga, be thou not 
Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee 
Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. 
He was thy friend — Ah ! haste, then, be our guide ; 
Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child. 
Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left 
Mercy upon the earth. Yes ! they tliemselves 
Are imsbands, they are fatiiers ! Wlien they sign'd 
The fearful sentence, they remember'd not 
He was a father, and a husband too. 
But when their eyes behold the agony 
One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will 

melt, 
They will, they must revoke it. Oh ! the sight 
Of mortal woe is terrible to man ! 
Perhaps the warrior's lofty soul disdain'd 
To vindicate his deeds, or to recall 
His triumphs won for them. It is for us 
To wake each high remembrance. Ah ! we know 
That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, 
And we will pray. 

Gon. Oh Heaven ! that 1 could leave 
Your hearts one ray of hope ! There is no ear, 
No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, 
Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt 
Falls heavy, and the hand by which 't is lanch'd 
Is veil'd in clouds. There is one comfort still, 
The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, 
I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. 
The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. 
Oh ! fearful is the trial, but the God 
Of mourners will be with you. 

Mat. Is there not 
One hope ? 

Ant. Alas ! my child ! 

Scene IV. — A Prison. 

Carmagnola. 

They must have heard it now. — Oh ! that at least 
I might have died far from them ! I'hough their 

hearts 
Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour. 
The solemn hour of Nature's parting pangs. 
Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, 
And we must drain its draught of bitterness 
Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields; 
Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arma 
O proud delights of danger I Battle cries. 
And thou, my war-steed ! a)id ye trufupet note? 
Kindling the snni ! 'Midst your luniuttuous joy» 
De;ith seem'd all beautiful. — Ai.d must I then,' 
With shrinking cold rcluctani.e, to my fate 
Be dragg'd, e'en as a fel .xi, v/n the wind* 



530 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints ? 
And Marco ! hath he not betray'd me too? 
Vile doubt ! That I could cast it from my soul 
Before I die ! — But no ! What boots it now 
Thus to look back on life with eye that turns 
To linger where my footstep may not tread ? 
Now, Philip ! thou wilt triumph ! Be it so ! 
I too have proved such vain and impious joys, 
And know their value now. But oh ! again 
To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, 
Last accents of their voices 1 By those arms 
Once more to be encircled, and from thence 
To tear myself for ever ! — Hark ! they come ! — 
O God of Mercy, from thy throne look down 
In pity on their woes ! 

Scene V. 
Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, and Car- 

MAGNOLA. 

Ant. My husband ! 

Mat. Oh ! my fither ! 

Ant. Is it thus 
That thou returnest ? and is this the hour 
Desired so long ? 

Car. O ye afflicted ones ! 
Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. 
Long have my thoughts been used to look on 

Death, 
And calmly wait his time. For you alone 
My soul hatli need of firmness ; will ye, then. 
Deprive me of its aid ? — When the Most High 
On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows 
The courage to sustain them. Oh I let yours 
Equal your sorrows I Let us yet find joy 
Li this embrace, 'tis still a gift of Heaven. 
Thou weep'st, my child ! and thou, beloved wife ! 
Ah ' when I made thee mine, tiiy days flow'd on 
In peace and gladness ; I united thee 
To my disastrous fate, and now tiie thought 
Embitters death. Oh ! that I had not seen 
The Vi'oes I cause thee ! 

Ant. Husband of my youth ! 
Of my bright days, thou who didst make them 

bright. 
Read thou my heart ! the pangs of death are there. 
And yet e'en now — I would not but be thine. 

Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee: 
Oh ! make me not too deeply feel it now. 

Mat. The homicides ! 

Car. No, sweet Matilda, no ! 
Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise 
To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb 
These moments — they are sacred. Yes ! my 

wrongs 
Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, 
That, e'en 'midst all the fulness of our woe. 
High, holy joy remains. — Death! death! — our 

foes, 
(^ur most relentless foes, can only speed 
Th' inevitable hour. Oh ! man hath not 
Invented death for man: it would be then 
Madd'nirig- and insupportable ; from Heaven 
'T is sent, and Heaven doth temper all its pangs 
With suah blest comfort, as no mortal power 



Can give or take away. My wife ! my child ! 

Hear my last v^■ords — they wring your bosoms now 

With agony, but yet, some future day 

'T will soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife ! 

Sustain thy grief, and live ! this ill-starr'd girl 

Must not be reft of all. Fly swiltly hence. 

Conduct her to thy kindred, she is theirs, 

Of their own blood — and they so loved thee once 

Then, to their foe united, thou becamest 

Less dear ; for feuds and wrongs made warring' 

sounds 
Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. 
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return 
A mourner ; and the object of their hate 
Will be no more. — Oh ! there is joy in death ! — 
And thou, my flower ! that 'midst the din of arms, 
Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head 
Droops to the earth ! Alas ! the tempest's rage 
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and tiiy heart 
Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. 
I feel thy burning tears upon my breast — 
I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim 
Pity from me, Matilda ? Oh ! thy sire 
Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st 
That the forsaken have a father still 
On high. Confide in him, and live to days 
Of peace, if not of joy ; for such to thee 
He surely destines. Wherefore hath he pour'd 
The torrent of affliction on thy youth. 
If to thy future years be not reserved 
All his benign compassion ? Live ! and soothe 
Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms 
Of no ignoble consort lead thee still ! — 
Gonzaga I take the hand which thou hast press'd 
Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts 
Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. 
Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith 
To guide and guard these mourners, till they join 
Their friends and kindred? ' 

Gon. Rest assured, I will. 

Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, 
Thou to the field returnest, there for me 
Salute my brethren ; tell them that I died 
Guiltless ; thou hast been witness of my deeds, 
Hast read my inmost thoughts — and know'st it 

well. 
Tell them I never, with a traitor's shame, 
Stain'd my bright sword. — Oh ! never — I myself 
Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me 
When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, 
And banners proudly waving in the air. 
Think of thine ancient comrade ! And the day 
Following the combat, when upon the field, 
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony 
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites. 
With lifted hands, is ofiering for the slain 
His sacrifice to heaven ; — forget me not I 
For I, too, hoped upon the battle plain 
E'en so to die. 

Ant. Have mercy on us. Heaven ! 

Car. My wife ! Matilda ' Now the hour is nigh, 
And we must part. — Farewell ! 

Mat. No, father ! no ! 

Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, 
and then 
For pity's sake depart! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



531 



Ant. No", force alone 
Sliall tear us hence. 

{A soimd of arms is heard.) 
Mat. Hark ! wliat dread sound ! 
Ant. Great God ! 

{The door is half opened, and armed men 
enter, the chief of whom advances to 
the Count. His wife and daughter 
fall senseless. 
Car. O God ! I tliank thee. O most merciful! 
Thus to withdraw their senses from the jsangs 
Of this dread moment's conflict I 

Thou, my friend, 
Assist tliem, bear them from tliis scene of woe, 
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose 
I'o meet the day — that nought is left to fear. 

Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the 
last act, the attention which tliis tragedy has ex- 
cited in Ital}', must be principally attributed to 
the boldness of the author in so completely eman- 
cipating himself from the fetters of tlie dramatic 
unities. Tlie severity with which the tragic po- 
ets of that country have, in general, restricted 
themselves to those rules, has been sufficiently 
remarkable, to obtain, at least, temporary distinc- 
tion for the courage of the writer who should 
attempt to violate them. Although this piece 
comprises a period of several years, and that, too, 
in days so troubled and so " full of fate" — days 
in which the deepest passions and most powerl'ul 
energies of the human mind were called into ac- 
tion by the strife of conflicting interests ; there 
is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident, 
as if " to be born and die" made all the history 
of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. 
The character of the hero is portrayed in words, 
not in actions ; it does not unfold itself in any 
struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and 
the interest excited for him only commences at 
the moment when it ought to have reached its 
climax. The merits of the piece may be summed 
up in the occasional energy of the language and 
dignity of the thoughts ; and the truth with 
which the spirit of the age is characterised, as 
well in the developementof that suspicious policy 
distinguishing the system of the Venetian govern- 
ment, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, 
holding their councils of war, 

"Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel." 



CAIUS GRACCHUS, 

A TRAGEDY. 

By Monti. 



This tragedy, though inferior in power and 
mtercst to the Aristodemo of the same author, is, 
neveitheless, distinguished by beauties of a high 
order, and such as, in our opinion, fully establish 
its claims to more general attention than it has 
hitherto received. Although the lolliness and se- 
verity of liomau manners, in the days of the Re- 



public, have been sufficiently preserved to give 
an impressive character to the piece; yet those 
workings of passion and tenderness, without 
which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and 
heroism unnatural, have not been (as in the tra- 
gedies of Alfieri upon similar uubjects) too rigidly 
suppressed. 

The powerful character of the high-hearted 
Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty 
which our ideas are wont to associate with the 
name of a Roman matron; and the depth and 
sublimity of maternal alTection more particularly 
belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are beau- 
tifully contrasted with the softer and more woman, 
ish feelings, the intense anxieties, the sensitive 
and passionate attachment, embodied in the per- 
son of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. The ap- 
peals made by Gracchus to the people are full of 
majestic eloquence, and the whole piece seems 
to be animated by that restless and untameable 
spirit of freedom, whose immortalized struggles 
for ascendency give so vivid a colouring, so ex- 
alted an interest, to the annals of the ancient re. 
publics. 

Tlie tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caius 
Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, 
after having been employed in rebuilding Car- 
thage, which Scipio had utterly demolished. 

Caius, in Rome behold thyself! The night 
Hath spread her favouring shadows o'er thy path ; 
And thou, be strong, my country ! for thy son 
Gracchus is with thee ! All is hush'd around, 
And in deep slumber ; from the cares of day. 
The worn plebeians rest. Oh ! good and true, 
And only Romans! your repose is sweet. 
For toil hath given it zest ; 't is calm and pure, 
For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, 
My brother's murderers, the patricians, hold 
Inebriate vigils o'er their festal boards. 
Or in dark midnight councils sentence me 
To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem 
Of the unlook'd-for and tremendous foe 
So near at hand ! It is enough. I tread 
In safety my pa'ternal threshold. — Yes ! 
This is my own ! Oh mother ! oh my wife ! 
My child ! — I come to dry your tears. I come 
Streno-then'd by three dread furies. One is wrath. 
Fired by my country's wrongs; and one deep love, 
For those, my bosom's inmates ; and the third — 
Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother's blood! 

His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of 
Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate charac- 
ter, and unprincipled designs, he is represented 
as unacquainted. From the opening speech made 
by Fulvius (before he is aware of the presence 
of Caius) to the slave by whom he is attended, it 
appears that he is just returned from the perpe 
tralion of some crime, the nature of which is not 
disclosed until the second act. 

The suspicions of Caius are, however awaken 
ed, by the obscure allusions to some act of signal, 
but secret vengeance, which Fulvius tin-ows out 
in the course of the ensuing discussion 



Ful. This is no time for grief and feeble tears, 
But for high deeds. 

Cuius. And we will make it such. 
But prove we first our strength. Declare, what 

friends 
(If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain 
True to our cause ? 

Ful. Few, few, but valiant hearts ! 



Oh ! what a change is here ! There was a time. 
When, over all supreme, thy word gave law 
To nations and their rulers; in thy presence 
The senate trembled, and the citizens 
riock'd round thee in deep reverence. Then a 

word, 
A look from Caius — a salute, a smile, 
Fill'd them with pride. Each sought to be the 

friend. 
The client, ay, the very slave, of him, 
Tlie people's idol ; and beholding them 
Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself. 
Didst blush to see their vileness ! — But thy fortune 
Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt 
Into dim vapour, and the eartidy god. 
So worshipp'd once, from his forsaken shrines, 
Down to the dust is hurl'd. 

Caius. And what of this? 
There is no power in Fortune to deprive 
Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart 
As meets tlie storm exultingly ; a heart 
Whose stern delight it is to strive with fate. 
And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible 
But because man is vile. A coward first 
Made her a deity. 



But say, what thoughts 
Are foster'd by tlie people ? Have they lost 
The sense of their misfortunes ? Is the name 
Of Gracchus in their hearts — reveal the truth — 
Already number'd with forgotten things ? 

Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now 
there, 
Borne on light pinion — such the people's love ! 
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults 
Are of their miseries; and their feebleness 
Is to their woes proportion'd. Haply siill 
The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine. 
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute; 
And the deep paleness of tlieir timid mien. 
And eyes in fix'd despondence bent on earth. 
And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name, 
Aione accuse them. They are hush'd, for now 
Not one, nor two, their tyrants ; but a host 
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich. 
And the Patrician Romans. Yes ! and well 
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth. 
For Rome is widovv'd ! Distant wars engage 
The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led. 
And but the weak remain. Hence every heart 
Sicken-s with voiceless terror ; and the people 
Bubdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought, 
But yet are silent. 

Caius. I will make them heard. 
Eorae is a slumbeiJng lion, and my voice 



Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came 
Prepared for all ; and as I track'd the deep 
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew 
Familiar in its musings. With a voice 
Of wrath, the loud winds fiercely swell'd ; tho 

waves 
Mutter'd around ; Heaven flash'd in lightning- 

forth, 
And the pale steersman trembled : I the while 
Stood on the tossing and bewilder'd bark, 
Retired and shrouded in my mantle's folds, 
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and ail absorb'd 
In a far deeper storm ! Around my heart 
Gathering in secret, then my spirit's powers 
Held council with themselves — and on my 

thoughts 
My country rose, — and I foresaw the snares. 
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate. 
And my false friends, awaiting my return. 
***** 

Fulvius ! I wept ! but they were tears of rage ! 
For I was wrought to frenzy, by the thought 
Of my wrong'd counti-y, and of him, that brother, 
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly 

cried 
" Vengeance !" — nor found it yet. 

Ful. It is fulfill'd. 

Cuius. And how ? 

Ful. Thou shalt be told. 

Caius. Explain thy words ! 

Ful. Then know — (incautious as I am !) 

Caius. Why thus 
Falters thy voice ? Why speak'st thou not ? 

Ful. Forgive ! 
E'en friendship sometimes hath its secrets. 

Caius. No ! 
True friendship, never ! 

Caius afterwards enquires what part his bro- 
ther-in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to adopt 
in their enterprises. 

His high renown — 
The glorious deed, whereby was earn'd his name 
Of second Africanus; and the blind. 
Deep reverence paid him by the people's hearts. 
Who, knowing him tiieir foe, respect him still; 
All this disturbs me : hardly will be won 
Our day of victory, if by him withs'ood. 

Ful. Yet won it shall be. If but this thou 
fear'st. 
Then be at peace. 

Caius. I understand thee not. 

Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly 
waste 
Our time and words. Soon will the morning break 
Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return : 
I fly to cheer them with the tidings. 

Cuius. Stay ! 

Ful. And wherefore? 

Caius. To reveal thy meaning. 

Ful. Peace ! 
I hear the sound of steps. 

This conversation is interrupted by the entranco 
of Cornelia, with the wife and child of Caius, Tbe^ 



ar«. about to seek an asylum in the house of Emi- 
liar.as, by wliom Cornelia has been warned of the 
irnuiineiit dans^cr which menaces the family of 
lier sou from the fury of the patricians, who intend 
on the following' day, to abrogate the laws enacted 
by the Gracchi in favour of the plebeians. Tl)e 
joy and emotion of Gracchus, on tiius meeting 
with his lainily, may appear somewliat inconsis- 
tent Willi his having remained so long engaged in 
political discussion, on the threshold of (heir abode, 
without ever having made an enquiry after their 
welfare ; but it would be somewhat unreasonable 
ti> try the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a tra- 
gedy) by the laws of nature. Before, however, we 
are disposed to condemn the principles which seem 
to be laid down for the delineation of Roman char- 
acter in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the 
general habits of the people whose institutions gave 
birth to the fearful grandeur displayed in the ac- 
tions of the elder Brutus, and whose towering 
spirit was fostered to enthusiasm by the contem- 
plation of it, must have been deeply tinctured by 
the austerity of even their virtue. Shakspeare 
alone, without compromising the dignity of his 
Romans, has disencumbered them of the formal 
scholastic drapery which seems to be their official 
garb, and has stamped their features with the gene- 
ral attributes of human nature, without effacing 
the impress which distinguished " the men of 
iron," from the nations who " stood still before 
them." 

The first act concludes with the parting of Caius 
and Fulvius in wrath and suspicion, Cornelia hav- 
ing- accused the latter of an attempt to seduce her 
daughter the wife of Seipio, and of concealing the 
most atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for 
the cause of liberty. 

Of liberty 
What speak'st thou, and to whom ? Thou hast 

no shame — 
No virtue — and thy boast is, to be free ! 
Oh ! zeal for liberty ! eternal mask 
Assumed by every crime ! 

In the second act, the death of Emilianus is an- 
nounced to Opimius the consul, in the presence of 
Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied by 
a rumour of his having perished by assassination. 
The mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and the 
accusation of Cornelia, immediately recur to the 
mind of Caius. The following scene, in which 
his vehement emotion, and high sense of honour, 
are well contrasted with the cold-blooded sophistry 
of Fulvius, is powerfully wrought up. 

Caius. Back on my thoughts the words of Ful- 
vius rush. 
Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart ! 

{Fulvius enters.) 
Thou com'st in time. Speak, thou perfidious 

friend ! 
Seipio lies murder'd on his bed of death ! — 
Who slew him ? 

Ful. Ask'st thou me? 
Caius. Thee ! thee, who late 
47* 



Did'st in such words discourse of him as now 
Assure rne thou'rt his murderer. Traitor, speak I 

Ful. If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart, 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 
More grateiul praise, and warmer thanks might 

well 
Reward the gen'rous courage which hath freed 
Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe ! 

Cuius. Then he was slain by thee ? 

Ful. Ungrateful friend ! 
Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces 
Thy honour. Freedom's wavering light is dim 
Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate, 
One Seipio drove thy brother to a death 
Of infamy, another seeks thy fall : 
And when one noble, one determined stroke, 
To thee and thine assures the viet'ry, wreaks 
The people's vengeance, gives thee life and fame, 
And pacifies thy brother's angry shade, 
Is it a cause for wailing ? Am I call'd 
For this a murderer ? Go ! — I say once more, 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 

Caius. I know thee now, barbarian ! Woulc''st 
thou serve 
My cause with crimes ? 

Ful. And those of that proud man 
Wiiom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are they 
To be forgotten ? Hath oblivion then 
Shrouded the stern destroyer's ruthless work, 
The famine of Numantia ? buch a deed, 
As on our name the world's deep curses drew ! 
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray'd, 
And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs. 
Back to their parents sent ? Is this forgot ? 
Go, ask of Carthage ! — bid her wasted shores 
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount 
The terrible achievements ! — At the cries, 
The groans, th' unutterable pangs of those, 
The more than hundred thousand wretches 

doom'd 
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword, . 
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth 
In horror doth not open I — They were foes, 
They were barbarians, but unarm'd, subdued, 
Weeping, imploring mercy ! And the law 
Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak. 
To tame the lofty ! But in other lands. 
Why should I seek for records of his crimes. 
If here the suffering people ask in vain 
A little earth to lay their bones in peace ? 
If the decree which yielded to their claims 
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal 
Thy brother's blood was shed ; if this remain 
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he 
That moek'd its power ? — Who to all Rome de- 
clared 
Thy brother's death was just, was needful ? — Who 
But Seipio? — And remember thou the words 
Which burst in ll)under from thy lips e'en then 
Heard by the people ? Caius, in my heart 
They have been deejjly treasured. He must die 
(Thus didst thou speak) tlvs tyrant We J)h7e 

need 
That he should perish ! — I have done the deed 
And call'st thou 7ne his murderer ? U the blow 
Was guilt, then thou art guilty. From thy lii» 



The sentence came — the crime is thine alone. 
I, thy devoted friend, did but obey 
1'hy mandate. 

Cuius. Thou my friend ! I am not one, 
To call a villain friend. Let thunders fraught 
With fate and death, awake, to scatter those, 
Who bringing liberty through paths of blood 
Bring chains ! — degrading Freedom's lofty self 
Below e'en Slavery's level ! — Say thou not. 
Wretch ! that the sentence and the guilt were 

mine ! 
I wish'd him slain ! — 't is so — but by the axe 
Of high and public justice; that whose stroke 
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced 
Unutterably my name — I bid thee tremble ! 

Ful. Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee, 
Let insult cease ! Be the deed just or guilty, 
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not 
To utter more. 

Caius. And what hast thou to say ? 

Ful. That which I now suppress. 

Caius. How ! are there yet. 
Perchance, more crimes to be reveal'd ? 

Ful. I know not. 

Caius. Thou know'st not ! — Horror chills my 
curdling veins; 
I dare not ask thee farther. 

Ful. Thou dost well. 

Caius. What said'st thou? 

Ful. Nothing. 

Caius. On my heart the words 
Press heavily. Oh ! what a fearful light 
Bursts o'er ray soul ! — Hast thou accomplices? 

Ful. Insensate ! ask me not. 

Caius. I must be told. 

Ful. Away ! — thou wilt repent. 

Caius. No more of this, for I will know. 

Ful. Thou wilt ? 
Ask then thy sister. [Exit. 

Caius (alone). Ask my sister ? — What ! 
[s she a- murderess? — Hath my sister slain 
Her lord ? — Oh ! crime of darkest dye ! — Oh ! name 
Till now unstain'd, name of the Gracchi, thus 
Consign'd to infamy ! — to infamy ? 
The very hair doth rise upon my head, 
Thrill'd by the thought !— Where shall I find a 

place 
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains 
From this dishonour'd brow ? — What should I do? 
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones 
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry, 
" Away ! — and pause not — slay thy guilty sister !" 
Voice of lost honour of a noble line 
Disgraced, I will obey thee ! — terribly 
Thou call'st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased. 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE 
ITALIAN POETS. 



^''hoever has attentively studied the works of 

the Italian poets, from the days of Dante and 

ctraich to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, 



must have been struck with those allusions to the 
glory and the fall, the renown and the degrada- 
tion, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest to 
their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that 
devoted country, the warning voice of her bards 
has still been heard to prophesy the impendmg 
storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring 
recollections from the glorious past, as have re- 
sounded through the land, notwithstanding the 
loudest tumults of those discords which have 
made her — 

"Long, long, a bloody stage 
For petty kinglings tame, 
Their miserable game 
Of puny war to wage." 

There is something very affecting in these 
vain, though exalted aspirations, after that inde- 
pendence which the Italians, as a nation, seem 
destined never to regain. The strains in which 
their high-toned feelings on this subject are re- 
corded, produce on our minds the same effec*: 
with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose 
melody is fraught, in our imagination, with recol- 
lections of tlie green woodland, the free air, and 
unbounded sk}'. We soon grow weary of the per- 
petual violets and zephyrs, whose cloying sweet- 
ness pervades the sonnets and canzoni of the mi- 
nor Italian poets, till we are ready to " die in 
aromatic pain;" nor is our interest much more 
excited even by the everlasting laurel which 
inspires the enamoured Petrarch with so inge- 
nious a variety of concetti, as might reasonably 
cause it to be doubted whether the beautiful 
Laura, or the emblematic tree, is the real object 
of the bard's affection ; but the moment a patriotic 
chord is struck our feelings are awakened, and 
we find it easy to sympathize with the emotions 
of a modern Roman, surrounded by the ruins of 
the Capitol ; a Venetian when contemplating the 
proud trophies won by his ancestors at Byzantium ; 
or a Florentine amongst the tombs of the mighty 
dead, in the church of Santa Croce. It is not, 
perhaps, noio, the time to plead, with any effect, 
the cause of Italy ; yet cannot we consider that 
nation as altogether degraded, whose literature, 
from the dawn of its majestic immortality, has 
been consecrated to the nurture of every generous 
principle and ennobling recollection ; and whose 
" choice and master spirits," under the most ad- 
verse circumstances, have kept alive a flame, 
which may well be considered as imperishable, 
since the "ten thousand tyrants" of the land have 
failed to quench its brightness. We present our 
readers with a few of the minor effusions, in 
which the indignant though unavailing regrets 
of those, who, to use the words of Alfieri, are 
" slaves, yet still indignant slaves,"* have been 
feelingly portrayed. 

The first of these productions must, in the ori 
ginal, be familiar to every reader who has any 
acquaintance with Italian Jiterature. 



* " Schiavi siara, raa schiavi ogiior frementi." Slfwrir 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



535 



And shadows, born of terror and despair — 
Shadows of death have dimni'd thy glorious 
eyes. 

Italia ! oh ! Italia, now no more ! 

For thee my tears of^shame and ang-nish flow; 
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour, 

Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe 
Is, that base herds of thine own sons, the while, 

Behold thy miseries with insulting smile. 



VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 

" Ciuiinilo giu dai gran monti bruna bruna," &c. 

When from the mountain's brow, the gathering 
shades 

Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell: 
Day beams o'er other lands, if here she fades, 

Nor bids the universe at once farewell. 

But thou, I cry, my country ! what a night 

Spreads o'er tiiy glories one dark sweeping pall ; 

Thy thousand triumphs won by valour's might. 

And wisdom's voice — what now remains of all? 

ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI. 

And.seest thou not th' ascending flame of war, " Quella, ch'ambi le mani entro la chioma," &o. 

Burst through thy darkness, redd'ning from afar ? ^ . „ 

Is not tiiy misery's evidence complete ? '^'^ that cast down the empires of the world, 

But if endurance can thy fall delay. 
Still, still endure, devoted one ! and say. 

If it be victory thus but to retard defeat ? 



CARLO MARIA MAGGI. 

"lo grido, e gridcro tinche mi senla," &c. 

I CRY aloud, and ye shall hear my call, 
Arno, Sessino, Tiber ; Adrian deep, 
And blue Tyrrhene ! Let him first roused from 
sleep 

Startle the next ! one peril broods o'er all. 

It nought avails tliat Ita.\y should plead, 
Forgetting valour, sinking in despair, 
At strangers' feet ! — our land is all too fair ; 

Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's speed. 

In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, 

For pardon sue ; 't is not her agony. 

Her death alone may now appease her foes. 

Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun ! 

But oh ! weak pride, thus feeble and undone, 
Nor to wage battle, nor endure repose ! 



And, in her proud triumphal course through 
Rome, 
Dragg'd them, from freedom and dominicnhurl'd 
Round by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'ercome 



ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI. 
"Italia! Ilalia! ah! non piu Italia! appena," &c. 



Italia. ; oh ! no more Italia now ! 

Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear 
She was a queen with glory mantled ; — Thou, 

A slave, degraded, and compell'd to bear. 



I see her now, dismantled of her state, 

Spoil'd of her sceptre ; crouching to the ground 

Beneath a. hostile car, and lo ! the weight 
Of fetters, her imperial neck around ! 

Oh ! that a stranger's envious hands had wrought 
This desolation ! for I then would say, 

" Vengeance, Italia !" — in the burning thought 
Losing my grief: but 't is th' ignoble sway 

Of vice hath bow'd thee ! Discord, slothful ease, 

Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords aia 
these. 



FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI. 

THE SHORE OF AFRICA. 

" O peregrin, chi muovi erranti il passo," &c. 

Pilgrim ! whose steps those desert sands explore, 

Where verdure never spreads its bright array ; 
Know, 'twas on this inhospitable shore. 

From Pompey's heart the life-blood ebb'd away 
'T was here betray'd he fell, neglected lay ; 

Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone. 
Whose life, so long a bright, triumphal day, 

O'er Tiber's wave, supreme in glory shone ! 



Thou, stranger ! if from barbarous climes thy birth. 
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth, 
Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue 
die ; 

Chains gird thy hands and feet ; deep clouds of. But if 't is Roman blood that fills thy veins, 

Then, son of heroes ! think upon tliy chains, 
And bathe with tears the grave of liberty. 



Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies ; 



A TRAGEDY. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Raimer de Chatillon, . . A French Baron, 

Aymer, His Brother. 

Melech, , , , A Saracen Emir, 

Herman, ) ^ Knights. 

Du Mornav, ^ ° 

Gaston, A Vassal of Raimer^s. 

Urban, A Priest, 

Sadi, 

Mobaima, Daughter of Melech, 

Knights, Arabs, Citizens, Sfc, 



ACT THE FIRST. 

SCENE I. BEFORE THE GATES OF A CITY IN PALES- 
TINE. 

URBAN, PRIESTS, CITIZENS, at the gates. Others 
looking from the walls above. 

Url. {to a Citizen on the walls above.) You 
see their lances glistening ? You can tell 
The way tliey take ? 

Cit. Not yet. Their march is slow ; 

They have not reach'd the jutting cliff, where first 
The mountain path divides. 

Urb. And now ? 

Cit, The wood 

Shuts o'er their track. Now spears are flashing 

out — 
It is the banner of De Chatillon. 

(Very slow and mournful military music 
without. 
This way ! they come this way ! 

IJrb. All ho\j saimts 

Grant that they pass us not ! Those martial sounds 
Have a strange tone of sadness i Hark ! they 

swell 
Froudly, yet full of sorrow. 

\_Knights, Soldiers, Sfc. enter, with Raimer 
de Chatillon.] 

Welcome, knights ! 
Ye bring us timely aid ! men's hearts were full 
Of doubt and terror. Brave De Chatillon ! 
True soldier of the Cross ! I welcome thee ; 
1 greet thee with all blessing ! Where tiiou art 
There is deliverance ! 

liai. {bending to receive the Priesfs blessing.) 
Holy man, I come 
From a lost battle. 

U)-b. And thou bring'st the heart 

Whose spirit yields not to defeat. 

liai. I bring 

M> fath'sr s bier. 



Urh, His bier ! — I marvel not 

To see your brow thus darken'd ! — And he died 
As he had lived, in arms ? 

Rai. {gloomily.) Not, not in arms — 

His war-cry had been silenced. Have ye place 
Amidst your ancient knightly sepulchres 
For a warrior with his sword ? — He badu me beal 
His dust to slumber here. 

Urb. And it shall sleep 

Beside our noblest, while we yet can call 
One holy place our own ! — Heard you, my lord, 
That the fierce Kaled's host is on its march 
Against our city ? 

Rai. {with sudden exultation.) That were joy 
to know ! 
That were proud joy ! — who told it ? — there 's a 

weight 
That must be heaved from off my troubled heart 
By the strong tide of battle ! — Kaled ! — Ay, 
A gallant name ! — how heard you ? 

Urb, Nay, it seem'd 
As if a breeze first bore the rumour in. 
I know not how it rose ; but now it comes 
Like fearful truth, and we were sad, thus left 
Hopeless of aid or counsel — till we saw 

Rai. {hastily.) You have my brother here ? 

Urb. {ivith embarrassment.) We have — but 
he 

Rai. But he — but he ! — Aymer de Chatillon ! 
The fiery knight — the very soul o' the field — 
Rushing on danger with the joyous step 
Of a hunter o'er the hills I — is that a tone 
Wherewitli to speak of him 1 — I heard a tale — 
If it be true — nay, tell me ! 

Urb. He is here ; 

Ask him to tell thee 

Rai. — If that tale be true — 

Qie turns suddenly to his companions.) 
— Follow me ! — give the noble dead his rites, 
And we will have our day of vengeance yet, 
Soldiers and friends 1 [Exeunt omncs 

SCENE II. a hall of ORIENTAL ARCHITECTURE, 

opening UPON GARDENS. A FOUNTAIiN IN THE 
CENTRE. 

AYMER DE CHATILLON-MORAIMA. 

Mar. (bending over a cojich on which her hro 
ther is sleeping. He sleeps so calmly now 
the soft wind here 
Brings in such lulling sounds ! — Nay, think yoi; 

not 
This slumber will restore him ? See you not 
His cheek's faint glow ? 



not 



Aym. (turning away.) It was my sword whicli 
gave 
The wound iic dies from ! 

Mor. Dies from ! say not so I 

Tiie brotlicr of my childhood and my youth, 
My heart's first friend ! — Oil ! I have been too 

weak, 
I have delay'd too long- ! — He could not sue, 
"He bade me urge the prayer he would 

speak, 

And I withheld it ! — Christian, set us free ! 
You hnve been gentle with us ! 't is the weight, 
Tlic bitter feeling, of captivity 
Wliich preys upon his liie ! 

Aym. You would go hence ? 

31or. For his sake ! 

Aym. You would leave me ! 't is too late ! 

You see it not — you know not, that your voice 
Hath power in its low mournfulness to shake 
Mine inmost soul ? — That you but look on me. 
With the soft darkness of your earnest eyes. 
And bid the world fade from me, and call up 
A thousand passionate dreams, which wrap my 

life. 
As with a troubled cloud ? — the very sound 
Of your light step hath made my heart o'erflow 
Even unto aching, with the sudden gush 
Of its deep tenderness ! — You know it not ? 
— Moraima ! — spfeak to me ! 

Mor. (covering herself with her veil.) I can 
but weep ! 
Is it even so ?— this love was born for tears ! 
Aymer! I can but weep! (going to leave him, he 
detains her. 
Aym. Hear me, yet hear me ! — I was rear'd in 
arms. 
And the proud blast of trumpets, and the shouts 
Of banner'd armies, these were joy to me, 
Enough of joy ! Till you— I look'd on you— 
We met where swords were flashing, and the lio-ht 
Of burning towers glared wildly on the slain— 

And then 

Mor. (hurriedly.) Yes ! then you saved me ! 
■^ym. Then I knew 

At once, what springs of deeper happiness 
Lay far witliin my soul — and they burst forth 

Troubled and dash'd with fear — yet sweet I I 

loved ! 
Moraima ! leave me not ! 

'^lor. For us to iove ! 

Oh ! is 't not taking sorrow to our hearts. 
Binding her there. — I know not what I say ! 
How shall I look upon my brother? Hark ! 
Did he not call ? (she goes up to the couch.) 

Aym. Am I beloved ? She wept 

With a full heart!— I am ! and such deep joy 
Is found on earth ! If I should lose her now ! 

If aught (an attendant enters.) 

'To attendant.) You seek me ! why is this ? 

,, ^"- My Lord, 

Your brother and his knights. 

, ^VOT. Here ! are they here ? 

The knights— my brother— said'st thou ? 

•^^^- Yes, my Lord, 

And he would speak with you. 

^i^'«- I sec— I know. 

2L 



(To attendant.) Leave mc ! I know why he i- 

come — 'tis vain. 
They shall not part us ! (looJcing hack on Moraima 

as he goes out.) 

What a silent grace 
Floats round her form ! — They shall not part ns ! 

no ! [Exit — Scene closes. 

SCENE ni. — A saUARE OF THE CITY — A CHURCH IN 
THE BACKGROUND. 

KAIMER DE CIIATILLOIV. 

Raimer (walking to and fro impatiently.) 
And now, too, now ! My father unavenged, 
Our holy places threaten'd, every heart 
Task'd to its strength ? A knight of Palestine 
Now to turn dreamer, to melt down his soul 
In lovelorn sighs ; and for an infidel ! 
■ — Will he lift up his eyes to look on mine ? 
Will he not— hush ! 

(Aymer enters. They look on each other for a 

moment loithout speaking.) 
Rai. (suppressing his emotion.) So brothers 
meet ! you know 
Wherefore I come ? 

Aym. It cannot be, 't is vain. 

Tell me not-of it ! 

Rai. How ! you have not heard ? 

(turning from him. 
He hath so shut the world out with his dreams. 
The tidings have not reach'd him ! or perchance 
Have been forgotten ! You have captives here ? 
Ay?n. (hurriedly.) Yes, mine ! my own — won 
by the right of arms ! 
You dare not question it. 

-R"j. A prince, they say, 

And his fair sister — is the maid so fair ? 

Aym. (turning suddenly upon him.) What, 

you would see her ! 
Rai. (scornfully.) I! — Oh, yes! to quell 
My soul's deep yearnings ! — Let me look on 

swords. 
— Boy, boy ! recall yourself! — I come to you 
With the last blessing of our father ! 
Aym. Last ! 

His last ! — how mean you ? — Is he 

R(ii- Dead ? — yes ! dead. 

He died upon my breast. 

Aym. (with the deepest emotion.) And I wa3 
here .' 
Dead! — and upon your breast! — You closed his 

eyes — 
While I — he spoke of me 7 

■S"«- With such deep love". 

He ever loved you most ! — his spirit seem'd 
I'o linger for your coming. 

^ym- What! bethought 

That I was on my way ! — He look'd for me 7 

And I 

Rai. You came not ! — I had sent to you. 
And told you he was wounded. 

Aym. Yes — but not- 

Not morUdly ! 

Rai. 'T was not that outward wound- 

That might have closed; and yet he surely thougfi. 
That you would come to him! He caP'd on vou 



538 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



When his thoughts wander'd ! — Ay, the very night 
The very hour he died — some hasty step 
Enter'd his chamber — and he raised his head, 
With a faint lightning in his eyes, and ask'd 
If it were yours ! — That hope's brief moment 

pass'd — 
lie sank then. — 

Aym. {throwing himself vpon his hro(her''s neck.) 
Brother ! take me to his grave, 
That I may kneel there, till my burning tears, 
W ith the strong passion of repentant love, 
Wring forth a voice to pardon me ! 

Rai. You weep ! 

— Tears for the garlands on a maiden's grave ! 
You know not how he died ! 

Aym. Not of his wound ? 

Rai. His wound ! — it is the silent spirit's wound, 
We cannot reach to heal ! — One burning thought 
Prey'd on his heart. 

Aym. Not — not — he had not heard — 

He bless'd me, Raimer ? 

Rai. Have you flung away 

Your birthright ? — Yes ! lie bless'd you ! — but he 

died 
— He whose name stood for Victory's — he believed 
The ancient honour from his grey head fall'n, 
And died — he died of shame ! 

Aym. What feverish dreams — 

Rai. (vehemently.) Was it not lost, the war- 
rior's latest field, 
The noble city held for Palestine 
Taken — the Cross laid low ? — I came too late 
To turn the tide of that disastrous fight, 
But not to rescue him. We bore him thence 
Wounded upon his shield — 
Aym. And I was here ! 

Rai. He cast one look back on his burning 
towers, 
Then threw the red sword of a hundred fields 
To the earth — and hid his face ! — I knew, I knew 
His heart was broken ! — Such a death for hijn .' 
— The wasting — the sick loathing of the sun — 
Let the foe's charger trample out my life. 

Let me not die o( shame! — But we will have 

Ay7ti. {grasping his hand eagerly.) Yes ! ven- 
geance ! 
Rai. Vengeance ! — By the dying once, 

And once before the dead, and yet once more 
Alone with Heaven's bright stars, I took that vow 
For hoth his sons ! — Think of it, when the night 
Is dark around you, and in festive halls 
Keep your soul hush'd, and think of it ! 

{A low chant of female voices, heard from 
behind the scenes.) 
Fall'n is the flower of Islam's race. 

Break ye the lance he bore. 
And loose bis vvrar-steed from its place, 
He is no more — 
:Single voice.) No more ! 

Weep for him mother, sister, bride ! 
/ He died, with all his fame — 

(Single voice.) He died ! 

Aym. {Pointing to a palace, and eagerly speak- 
ing to his attendant, who enters.) 
C-anic it not thence ? — Rudolf, wha.!; sounds are 
Uiese" 



Att. The Moslem Prince — your cap* ve — he is 
dead. 
It is the mourners' wail for him. 

Aym. And she — 

His sister — heard you — did they say she wept ! 
{Hurrying away, 
Rai. {indignantly.) All the deep-stirring tones 
of Honour's voice 
In a moment silenced ! {Solemn military mvsic. 
{A funeral procession, with priests, SfC, crosses 

the background to enter the church.) 
Rai. {following Aymer and grasping his arm,'^ 
Aymer ! there, look there 
It is your father's bier ! 

Aym. {returning.) He bless'd me, Raimer ? 
You heard him bless me ? — Yes ! you closed his 

eyes. 
He look'd for me in vain ! 

{He goes to the Her, and bends over it, 
covering his face.) 



ACT THE SECOND. 

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE CITADEL. 

RAIMER, AYMER, Knights, assembled in Council. 

A Knight. What ! with our weary and dis- 
tracted bands 
To dare another field ! — Nay, give them rest. 
Rai. {impatiently.) Rest I arid that sleepless 

thought 

Knight. These walls have strength 

To baffle siege. Let the foe gird us in — 
We must wait aid ; our soldiers must forget 
That last disastrous day. 

Rai. {coming forward.) If they forget it, in 
the combat's press 
May their spears fail them ! 

Knight. Yet, bethink thee, chief. 

Rai. When I forget it — how ! you see not, 
knights ! 
Whence we must now draw strength. Send down 

your thoughts 
Into the very depths of grief and shame. 
And bring back courage thence I To talk of rest! 
How do they rest, unburied on their field, 
Our brethren slain by Gaza ? Had we time 
To give them funeral rites ? and ask we now 
Time to forget their fall? My father died — 
I cannot speak of him I What! and forget 
The infidel's fierce trampling o'er our dead ? 
Forget his scornful shout ? Give battle now, 
While the thought lives as fire lives ! — there lies 

strength ! 
Hold the dark memory fast! Now, now — this 

hour ! 
Aymer, you do not speak ! 

Ay7n. {starting.) Have I not said ? 

Battle ! — yes, give us battle ! — room to pour 
The troubled spirit forth upon the winds. 
With the trumpet's ringing blast ' Way for re. 
morse ! 
ree way for vengeance I 



DE CHATILLON. 



539 



All tlie Knights.. Arm ! Heaven wills it so ! 

Rai. Gather your forces to the western gate 1 
Let none Ibrg'et that day ! Our field was lost, 
Our city's strength laid low — one mighty heart 
Broken I Let none forget it ! [Exeunt. 

SCENE II, — GARDEN OF A PALACE. 



Mot. Yes! his last look — my brother's dying 
look 
Reproaeh'd me as it faded from his face. 
And I deserved it ! Had I not given way 
To the wild guilty pleadings of my heart, 
I might have won his freedom ! Now, 't is past. 
He is free now I 

[Aymer enters, anned as for hattle. 
Aymer ! you look so changed ! 

Ayin. Changed I — it may be. A storm o' the 
soul goes by 
Not like a breeze ! There's such a fearful grasp 
Fix'd on my heart ! Speak to me — lull remorse .' 
Bid me fiirewell ! 

Mor. Yes ! it must be farewell ! 

No other word but that. 

Aym, No other word ! 

The passionate, burning words that I could pour 
From my heart's depths ! 'T is madness ! What 

have I 
To do with love ? I see it all — the mist 
Is gone — the bright mist gone ! I see the woe. 
The ruin, the despair ! And yet I love, 
Love wildly, fatally ! — But speak to me ! 
Fill all my soul once more with reckless joy ! 
That blessed voice again I 

Mor. Why, why is this ? 

Oh ! send me to my father ! We must part. 

Aym. Part ! — yes, I know it all ! I could not go 
Till I had seen you ! — Give me one farewell. 
The last — perchance the last I — but one farewell. 
Whose mournful music I may take with me 
Through tumult, horror, death ! 

[A distant sound of trumpets. 

Mor. (starting.) You go to battle ! 

Aym.. Hear you not that sound ? 

Yes ! I go there, where dark and stormy thoughts 
Find their free path ! 

Mor. Aymer ! who-leads the foe ? 

(Confused.) I meant — I mean — my people ! — 

Who is he. 
My people's leader ? 

Aym. Kaled. (looking at her suspi- 

ciously) How ! — you seem — 
The name disturbs you ! 

Mor. My last brother's name ! 

Aym. Fear not my sword for him ! 

Mor. {turning away.) If they should meet ! 
[ know the vow he made. (To Aymer) 

If thou — if thou 
Should'st fall ! 

Aym. Moraima ! then your blessed tears 

Would flow for me? then you would weep for 
me? 

Mor. I mrist weep tears of very shame — and 
yet- 



If — if your words have been love's own true 

words, 
Grant me one boon ! [Trumpet sounds again 

Aym. Hark ! I must hence — a boon/ 

Ask it, and hold its memory to your heart, 
As the last token, it may be, of love 
So deep and sad. 

Mor. Pledge me your knightly faith ! 

Aym. My knightly faith, my life, my honour 
—all, 
I pledge thee all to grant it ! 

Mor. Then, to-day, 

Go not this day to battle ! — He is there, 
My brother Kalcd ! 

Aym. {wildly^ Have I flung my sword 
Down to dishonour ? 

[Going to leave her — she detains him. 

Mor. Oh ! your name hath stirr'd 

His soul amidst his tents, and he had vow'd 
Long ere we met, to cross his sword with yours, 
Till one or both should fall. There hath been 

death 
Since then, amongst us ; he will seek revenge, 
And his revenge — forgive me I — oh ! forgive ! 
— I could not bear that thought ! 

Aym. Now must the glance 

Of a brave man strike me to the very dust ! 
Ay, this is shame. [Covering his face. 

( Turning wildly to Moraima.) You scorn me too? 

Away ! — She does not know 
What she hath done ! [Rushes out. 



SCENE III. — BEFORE A GATEWAY WITHIN THE CITY. 
RAIMER, HERMAN, Knights, Men-at-arms, &c. 

Her. 'T is past the hour. 

Rai. (looking out anxiously.) Away ! 't is not 
thy hour ! 
Not yet ! — When was the battle's hour delay'd 
For a Chatillon ? We must have come too soon i 
All are not here. 

Her. Yes, arl . 

Rai. They came too soon ! 

(Going up to the knights.) Couci, De Foix, Du 

Mornay — here, all here ! 
And he the last! — my brother ! (To a Soldier.) 

. Where 's your lord ? 
(Turning away.) Wliy should I ask, when that 

fair infidel ! [Aymer enters 

The Saracen at our gates — and you the last 1 
Come on, remember all your fame ! 

Aym. (coming fo7-ward in great agitation.) My 
fame ! 
— Why did you save me from the Paynim's sword, 
In my first battle ? 

Rrri, What wild words nre these ? 

Aym. You should have let me perish then- 
yes, then ! 
Go to your field and leave me ! 

Knights (thronging round him.) Leave y^a ' 

Rai. Aymer ! 
Was it your voice ? 

Aijm. NoiD talk to me of fame ' 

Tell me of all my warlike ancestors 
And of my father's death — that bitter death ! 



540 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Never did pilgrim for the fountains thirst 

As I for this day's vengeance 1 — To your field ! 

— I may not go ! 

Rai. (turning from him.) The name his race 
hath borne 
Through a thousand battles — lost ! 

[Returning to Aymer. 
A Chatillon ! 
Will you live and w^ed dishonour ' 

Aym. (covering his face.) Let the grave 

Take me and cover me ! — I must go down 
To its rest without my sword ! 

Rai. There 's some dark spell upon him ! Ay- 
mer, brother ! 
Let me not die of shame ! — He that died so 
Turn'd sickening from the sun ! 

Aym. Where should I turn ? 

(Going up ahrxiptly to the knights. 
Herman — Du Mornay I ye have stood with me 
I' the battle's front — ye know me ! — ye have seen 
The fiery joy of danger bear me on, 
As a wind the arrow ! — Leave me now — 't is past! 
Rai. (with hitierness.) He comes from her I — 
the infidel hath smiled. 
Doubtless, for this. 

Ayin. I should have been to-day 

Where shafts fly thickest, and the crossing swords 
Cannot flash out for blood ! — hark ! you are call'd ! 
(Wild Turkish tnusic heard without. The 
background of the scene hecomes more and 
more crowded with armed men. 
Lay lance in rest 1 — wave, noble banners, wave ! 

(Throwing down his sword. 
Go from me I — leave the fallen I — 

Her. Nay, but the cause ? 

Tell us the cause ! 

Rai. (approaching him indignantly.) Your 
sword — your crested helm 
And your knight's mantle — cast them down! 

your name 
Is in the dust I — our father's name ! — the cause? 
— Tell it not, tell it not ! 

(Turning to the soldiers and waving his hand. 
Sound, trumpets, sound ! 
On, lances, for the Cross ! 

(Military music. As the knights march out, 
he looks lack to Aymer. 

I would not now 
Call back my noble father from the dead, 
If I could with but a breath ! — Sound, trumpets, 
sound ! [Exeunt knights and soldiers. 

Aym. Why should I bear this shame ? — 't is 
not too late ! 

(Rushing after them — he suddenly checks 
himself. 
\[y faith I — my knightly faith pledged to my fall ! 

[Exit. 

BcJENE IV. — BEFORE A CHURCH. 

Uroups of citizens pas?sing to and fro. AYMER stand- 
ing against one of tlie pillars of the Church m the 
background, and leaning on liis sword. 

] si Cit (to 2d.) From the walls ? — how goes 

llie battle ? 
'ad an. Well all well, 



Praise to the Saints ! — I saw De Chatillon 
Fighting, as if upon his single arm 
The fate o' the day were set. 

3d Cit. Shame light on those 

That strike not with him in their place ! 

1st Cit. You mean 

His brother ? — Ay, is 't not a fearful thing 
That one of such a race — a brave one too — 
Siiould have thus fallen ? 

2d Cit. They say the captive girl 

Whom he so loved, hath won him from his faith 
To the vile Paynim creed. 

Aym. (suddenly coming forward.) Who darea 
say that ? 
Show me who dares say that ! 

(They shrink back — he laughs scornfully 

Ha ! ha ! ye thought 

To play with a sleeper's name ! — to make your 

mirth 
As low-born men sit by a tomb, and jest 
O'er a dead warrior ! Where 's the slanderer ? 
Speak ! 

A CITIZEN enters hastily. 
Cit. Haste to the walls ! — De Chatillon hath 
slain 
The Paynim chief! [They all go out, 

Aym. Why should they shrink? — I, I should 
ask the night 
To cover me! — I, that have flung my name 
Away to scorn ! — Hush ! am I not alone ? 

(Listening eagerly, 
i There 's a voice calling me — a voice i' the air — 
My father's ! — 'T was my father's ! Are the dead 
Unseen, yet with us? — fearful! 

(Loud shouts without, he rushes forward ex. 
ultingly. 

'T is the shout 
Of victory ! — We have triumph'd ! 

We ! — my place 
Is 'midst the fallen ! 

(Music heard, which approaches, swelling 
into a triumphant march. Knights en- 
ter in procession, with banners, torch- 
bearers, Sjc. The gates of the church 
are thrown open, and the altar, tombs, 
^c. within, are seen illuminated. 
Knights pass over, and enter the church. 
One of them takes a torch, and lifts it to 
Aymer''s face in passing. He strikes 
it down with a sioord ; then seeing 
R AIMER approach, drops the sword, and 
covers his face. 
Aym. (grasping Raimer by the mantle, as he is 

about to pass.) Brother ! forsake me not ! 
Rai. (suddenly drawing his sioord, and show- 
ino- it him.) My sword is red 

With victory and revenge ! — look — dyed to the 

hilt! 
— We fought — and where were you ? 

Aym. Forsake me not ! 

Rai. (pointing with his sword to the lomhs 

within the church.) Those are proud tombs ! 

— the dead, the glorious dead. 

Think you they sleep, and know not of their sons 

In the mysterious grave ? — We laid him there ' 



—Before the ashes of your father, spcalv I 
Have you al)jnrtd your faitli ? 

Ayin. (indignantly.) Your name is mine — 
your blood — and you ask this 1 
Wake him to liear ine answer I — liave you — No ! 
—You have not dared to think it. 

{Breaks from him, and goes out. 
Rai. (entering the church, and bending over 
one of the tombs. Not yet lost I 

Not yet all lost! — He shall be thine again I 
So slialt thou sleep in pcaee ! 

(Music and chorus of voices from the church. 
Praise, praise to Heaven ! 
Sing of the conquer'd field, the Paynim flying, 

Light up the slirines, and bid the banners wave! 
Sing of the warrior, for tlie red-cross dying, 
Chaunt a proud requiem o'er his holy grave ! 
Praise, praise to Heaven ! 
Praise ! — lift the song through night's resound- 
ing sky ! 
Peace to the valiant for the Cross that die ! 
Sleep soft, ye brave ! 



ACT THE THIRD. 

SCENE I. A PLATFORM BEFORE THE CITADEL. 

Knights entering. 

Her. (to one of the Knights.) You would plead 
for him ? 

Knight. Nay, remember all 

His past renown ! 

Her. I had a friend in youth — 

This Aymer's father had him shamed for less 
Than his son's fault — far less ! — 
We must accuse him — he must have his shield 
Reversed — his name degraded. 

Knight. He might yet — 

All the Knights. Must his shame cleave to 
vs? — We cast him forth — 
We will not bear it. 

RAIMER enters. 

Rai. Knights ! ye speak of hi7n — 

My brother — was 't not so? — All silent! — Nay, 
Give your thoughts breath I — What said ye ? 

Her. That his name 

Must be degraded. 

Rai. Silence! ye disturb 

riie dead — thou hear'st, my lather ! 

(Going up indignantly to the Knights. 
Which of ye 
Shall first accuse him ? He whose bold step won 
The breach at Ascalon ere Aymer's step, 
Let him speak first ! 
He that plunged deeper through the stormy fight, 
'i'hericc to redeem the banner of the Cross, 
On Cairo's plain, lut hiin speak first ! or he 
Whose sword burst swifter o'er the Saracen, 
I' the rescue of our king, by Jordan's waves, 
I say, let him speak first ! 

Htr, Is he not an apostate ? 

liai. No, no, no 

4S 



If he were that, had my life's blood that taint, 
This hand should pour it out! — He is not that. 

Her. Not yet. 

Rai. Not yet, nor ever ! — Let me die 

In a lost battle first ! 

Her, Hath he let go 

Name — kindred — honour — for an infidel. 
And will he grasp his faith ? 

Rai. (after a gloomy pause.) That whicli bears 
poison — should it not be crush'd ? 
What though the weed look lovely ? 

(Suddenly addressing one of the Knights. 
You have seen 
My native halls, Du Mornay, far away 
In Languedoc ? 

Knight. I was your father's friend — 

I knew them well. 

Rai. (thoughtfully.) The weight of gloom that 
hangs — 
The very banners seem to droop with it — 
O'er some of those old rooms ! — Were we there 

now, 
With a dull wind heaving the pale tapestries, 
Why, I could tell you — 

(Coming closer to the Knight. 
There 's a dark-red spot 
Grain'd in the floor of one — you know the tale ? 

Knight. I may have heard it by the winter fires 
— Now 't is of things gone by. 

Rai. (turning from him displeased.) Such le- 
gends give 
Soine minds a deeper tone. 

(To Herman.) If you had heard 
That tale i' the shadowy tower 

Her. Nay, tell it now 

Rai. They say the place is haunted — moaning 
sounds 
Come thence at midnight — sounds of woman's 
voice. 

Her. And you believe 

Rai. I but believe the deed 

Done there of old. I had an ancestor — 
Bertrand, the lion-chief^ — whose son went forth 
(A younger son — 1 am not of his line) 
To the wars of Palestine. He fought there well — 
Ay, all his race were brave ; but he return'd, 
And with a Paynim bride. 

Her. The recreant ! — say. 

How bore your ancestor ? 

Rai. Well may you think 

It chafed him — but he bore it — for the love 
Of that fair son, tlie child of his old age. 
He pined in heart, yet gave the infidel 
A place in his own halls. 

Her. But did this hist? 

Rui. How should it last ? Again the trumpet 
blew. 
And men were sunmion'd from their Jiomes to 

guard 
The city of the cross. But he seem'd cold — 
That youth ! he shunn'd his father's eye, and tooK 
No armour from the walls. 

Ihr. Had he then fallen? 

Was his faith wavering ? 

Rai. So the father foj ''d, 

Her. If Zliad been that father 



—-h 



542 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Rai. Ay, you come 

Of an honour'd lineage. What would you have 
done? 
Her. Nay, what -^id he ? 

Rai What did the lion-chief? 

{Turning to Du Mornay. 

Why, tJiou hast seen the very spot of blood 

On the dark floor ! — He slew the Paynim bride; 

Was'it not well? (He looks at them attentively, 

and as he goes out exclaims — ) 

My brother must not fall ! 

SCENE II. A DESERTED TURKISH BURYING-GROUND 

IN THE CITY — TOMBS AND STONES OVERTHROWN 

THE WHOLE SHADED BY DARK CYPRESS TREES. 

Mor. (leaning over a monumental pillar, which 
has been lately raised.) He is at rest — and 
I — is there no power 
In grief to win forgiveness from the dead ? 
When shall I rest ? Hark ! a step — Aymer's step! 
The thrilling sound ! 

{She shrinks Oack as reproaching herself. 
To feel that joy even here .' 
Brother ! oh, pardon me ! 
Rai. {entering, and slowly looking round.) A 
gloomy scene ! 
A place for — Is she not an infidel ? 
Who shall dare call it murder ? 

{He advances to her slowly, and looks at her. 
She is fair — 
The deeper cause ! Maid, you have thought of 

death 
'Midst these old tombs ? 

Mor. {shrinking from him fearfully.) This is 

my brother's grave. 
Rai. Thy brother's ! — that a warrior's grave 
had closed 
O'er mine — the free and noble knight he was ! — 
Ay, ihat the desert-sands had shrouded him 
Before he look'd on thee 1 

Bfor. If you are his — 

Tf Aymer's brother — though your brow be dark, 
I may not fear you ! 

Rai. No ! why thou shouldst fear 

The very dust o' the mouldering sepulchre, 
If it had lived, and borne his name on earth ! 
Hear'st thou ? — that dust hath stirr'd, and found 

a voice. 
And said that thou must die ! 

Mor. {clinging to the pillar as he approaches.) 
Be with me, Fleaven ! 
You will not murder me ? 

Rai. {turning avmy.) A goodly word 
To join with a warrior's name! — a sound to make 
Men's flesh creep. What! — for Paynim blood 
Did he stand faltering thus — my ancestor — 
In that old tower ? 

{He again approaches her — she falls on her 
knees. 
Mor. So young, and thus to die I 

Mercy — have mercy ! In your own far land 
If there be love that weeps and watches for you, 
\u>i follirvvs you with prayer — even by that love 
Span; me — for it is woman's ! If light steps 
I lave bounded there to meet you, clinging arms 



Hung on your neck, fond tears o'erflow'd you? 

cheek. 
Think upon those that loved you thus, for thus 
Doth woman love ! and spare me ! — think on 

them ; 
They, too, may yet need mercy ! Aymer, Aymer 
Wilt thou not hear and aid me ? 

Rai. {starting.) There's a name 

To bring back strength ! Shall I not strike to 
save 

His honour and his life ! Were his life all 

Mor. To save his life and honour! — will my 

death 

{She rises and stands before him, covering hei 
face hurriedly. 
Do it with one stroke ! I may not live for him ! 
Rai. {with surprise.) A woman meet death thus! 
Mor. {uncovering her eyes.) Yet one thing 
more — 
I have sisters and a father. Christian knight ! 
Oh ! by your mother's memory, let them know 
I died with a name unstain'd. 

Rai. {softened and surprised.) And such high 

thoughts from her I — an infidel ! 

And she named my mother ! — Once in early youth 

From the wild waves I snatch'd a woman's life ; 

My mother bless'd me for it {slowly dropping his 

dagger,) — even with tears 
She bless'd me. Stay, are there no other means ? 
{Suddenly recollecting himself.) Follow me, 
maiden ! Fear not now. 
Mor. But he— 

But Aymer — 

Rai. {sternly.) Would'st thou perish ? — ^nanie 
him not ! — 
Look not as if thou would'st ! Think'st thou dark 

thoughts 
Are blown away like dewdrops, or I, like him, 
A leaf to shake and turn i' the changing wind? 
Follow me, and beware ! 

{She bends over the tomb for a moment, and 
follows him. Aymer enters, and slowly 
comes forward from the background. 
Aym. For the last time — j'cs ! it must be the last 
Earth and heaven say — the last ! The very dead 
Rise up to part us ! — But one look — and then 
She must go hence for ever ! Will she weep? 
It had been little to have died for her — 
I have borne shame. 

She shall know all ! — Moraima ! — said they not 
She would be found here at her brother's grave ? 
Where should she go ? — Moraima ! — there 's the 

print 
Of her step — what gleams beside it ? 

{Seeing the dagger, he takes it up. 
Ha ! men work 
Dark deeds with things like this ! 

{Looking wildly and anxiously around, 

I see no blood ! 

{Looking at the dagger 

Stain'd ? — it may be from battle — 't is not — wet. 

{Looks round intently listening, then again 

examines the spot and suddenly exclaims— 

Ha ! — what is this ! — another step in the grass ! — 

Hers and another's step ! 

{He rushes into the cypress grove 



DE CHATILLON. 



543 



4CENE in. A HALL IN THE CITADEL, HUNG WITH 

ARJIS AND BANNERS. 

nAI?,IER — HERMAN — Kniirhts in tlie background, 
laying aside their Armour. 

Her. {coming forioard and speaking hurriedly.) 
Is it done ?— Have you done it? 

Rai. {with disgust.) Wliat ! you thirst 

For blood so deeply ? 

Her. {indignantly.) Have you struck, and saved 
The honour of your house ? 

Rai. {thoughtfully to himself.) The light i' the 
soul 
Is such a wavering thing ! — Have I done well ? — 

{To Herman. 
Ask me not ! — Never shall they meet again. 
Is 't not enough ? 

(Ayjier enters hurriedly with the dagger, 
and goes up with it to several of the 
kniglits, who begin to gather round the 
front. 
Aym. Whose is this dagger ? 

Rai. {coming forward and taking it.) Mine. 

Aym. Yours! yours! — and know you where 

Rai. {about to sheathe it, hut stopping.) Oh ! 
you do well 
So to remind me ! — Yes ! — it must have lain 
In the Moslem burial-ground — and that vile dust — 
Hence with it ! — 't is defiled. {Throws it from him. 

Ay7n. If such a deed — 

—Brother ! where is she ? 

Rai. Who ? — what knight hath lost 

A Ladye-Iove? 

Aym. Could he speak thus, and wear 

That scornful calm, if— no ! — he is not calm — 
What have you done ? 

Rai. {aside.) Yes ! she shall die to him ! 

Aym. {grasping his arm.) What have you 

done ? — speak ! 
Rai. You should know the tale 

Of our dark ancestor, the Lion-Chief, 
And his son's bride. 

Aym. Man ! man ! you murdered her ! 

{Sinking lack. 
It grows so dark around me ! She is dead ! 
{Wildly.) I'll not believe it! — No! she never 

look'd 
Like what could die ! 

{Coming up to his brother. 
If you have done that deed — 

Rai. {sternly.) If I have done it, I have flung 
off shame 
from my brave father's house. 

Ay?n. {in a low voice to himself.) So young, 
and dead 1 — because I loved her — dead ! 

(7b K AIMER. 

Where is she, murderer ? Let mc see her face. 
You think to hide it with the dust ! — ha ! ha ! 
The dust to cover her! We'll mock you still : 
If I call her back, she '11 come ! Where is she ? — 

speak ! 
Now, by my father's tomb, but I am calm. 
Rai. Never more hope to see her ! 
Aym. Never more ! 

{Silting down on the ground. 



I loved her, so she perish'd. — All the earth 
Hath not another voice to reach my soul. 
Now hers is silent ! — Never, never more ! 
If she had but said — farewell ! — {Bewildered.) It 

grows so dark ! 
This is some fearful dream. When the morn 

comes, I shall wake. — 
— My life's bright hours are done ! 

Rai. I must be firm 

( Takes a banner from the wall, and brings 
it to Aymer. 
Have you forgotten this 7 We thought it lost, 
But it rose proudly waving o'er the fight 
In a warrior's hand again! — Yours, Aymer, 
yours ! 

Brother ! redeem your fame ! 

Ay?n. {putting it from him.) The worthless 
thing ! 
Fame ! — she is dead ! — give a king's robe to one 
Stretch'd on the rack ! Hence with your pageant- 
ries, 
Down to the dust ! 

Her, The banner of the Cross ! 

Shame on the recreant ! — Cast him from us I 

Rai. Boy 

Degenerate boy ! here, with the trophies won 
By the sainted chiefs of old in Paynim war 
Above you and around ; the very air 
When it but shakes their armour on the walls, 
Murmuring of glorious deeds : to sit and weep 
Here for an Infidel ! My father's son, 
Shame ! shame ! deep shame ! 

Knights. Aymer de Chatillon ! 

Go from us, leave us ! 

Aym. {starting up.) Leave you ! what ! ye 

thought 

That I would stay to breathe the air you breathe ! — 

And fight by you ! Murderers ! I burst all ties 1 

{Throws his sword on the ground before them 

There 's not a thing of the desert half so free ! 

{To Raimer. 
You have no brother ! live to need the love 
Of a human heart, and steep your soul in fame 
To still its restless yearnings ! Die alone ! 
'Midst all your pomps and trophies — die alone ! 

{Going out, he suddenly returns 
Did she not call on me to succour her ? 
Kneel to you — plead lor life? — The Voice of Blood 
Follow you to your grave ! — [Exit 

Rai. {with emotion.) Alas ! my brother 

The time hath been, when in the face of Death 
I have bid him leave me, and he would not ! — 

( Turning to the Knights 
Knights 
The Soldan marches for Jerusalem — 
We '11 meet him on the way. 



ACT THE FOURTFL 

SCENE J. — CAMP OF MELECH, THE SARACEN EMIR 
MELECI-I—SADI— Soldiers. 

Mel. Yes ! he I mean — Baimin- de Chatillon ' 
Go, send swift riders o'er the moui tains forth 



544 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



And through the 'ieserts, to proclaim the price 
I set upon his hfo ! 

Sadi. Thou gav'st the word 

Before ; it hath been done — they are gone forth. 

Blel. Would that my soul could wing them ? 
Didst thou heed 
To say his life 7-r-l '11 have my own revenge ! 
Yes! I would save him from another's hand ! 
Thou said'st he must be brought aUve ? 

Sadi. I heard 

Thy will, and I obey'd. 

Mel. He slew my son — 

That was in battle — but to shed her blood ! 
My child Moraima's! Could he see and strike her? 
A Christian see her face, too ! From my house 
The crown is gone ! Who brought the tale ? 

Sadi. A slave 

Of your late son's, escaped. 

Mel. Have I a son 

Left ? speak, the slave of which ? Kaled is gone — 
And Octar gone — both, both are fallen — 
Both my young stately trees, and she my flower — 
— No hand but mine shall be upon him, none ! — 
{A sound of festive music without. 
What mean they there ? {An attendant enters. 

Att. Tidings of joy, my chief! 

Mel. Joy ! — is the Christian taken ? 

(MoRAiMA enters, and throws herself into 
his arms, 

Mor. Father! father! 

I did not think this world had yet so much 
Of aught like happiness ! 

Mel. My own fair child ! 

Is it on thee I look indeed, my child ? 

{Turning to attendants. 
Avvay, there ! — gaze not on us ! — Do I hold 
Thee in my arms ! — They told me thou wert 

slain. 
Raimer de Chatillon, they said 

Mor. {hurriedly.) Oh, no ! 

'Tway he that sent thee back thy child, my father ! 

Md. He ! why, his brother Aymer still refused 
A monarch's ransom for thee ! 

Mor. {with a momentary delight) Did he thus ? 
{Suddenly checking herself. 
— Yes ! I knew well ! — Oh ! do not speak of 
him ! 

Mel. What! hath he wrong'd thee ?— Thou 
hast suffer'd much 
Amongst these Christians I Thou art changed, 

my child. 
There's a dim shadow in thine eye, where once — 
— But they shall pay me back for all thy tears 
With their best blood. 

Mor. {alarmed.) Father ! not so, not so ! 

They still were gentle with me. But I sat 
And watch'd beside my dying brother's couch 
Through many days: and I have wept since then — 
Wept much. 

Mel. Thy dying brother's couch ! — yes, thou 
Wert ever true and kind ! 

Mor. {covering her face) Oh ! praise me not ! 
Look gently on me, or I sink to earth ; 
Not thus. 

Mel. No praise! thou'rt faint, my child, and worn: 
The length of way hath 



Mor. {eagerly.) Yes ! the way was long 

The desert's wind breathed o'er me. Could I 
rest? 
Mel. Yes ! thou shalt rest within thy father's 
tent. 
Follow me, gentle child ! Thou look'st so 
changed. 
Mor. {hurriedly.) The weary way, — the desert's 
burning wind — 

{Laying her hand on him as she goes out. 
Think thou no evil of those Christians, tiither ! — 
They were still kind. 



SCENE ir. BEFORE A FORTRESS AMONGST ROCKS, 

V/ITH A DESERT BEYOND, MILITARY MUSIC. 

RAIMER DE CHATILLON — Knights — Soldiers. 

Rai. They speak of truce ? 
The Knights. Even so. Of truce between 

The Soldan and our King. 

Rai. Let him who fears 

Lest the close helm should wear his locks away, 
Cry " truce," and cast it off. I have no will 
To change mine armour for a masquer's robe. 
And sit at festivals. Halt, lances, there ! 
Warriors and brethren ! hear. — I own no truce — 
I hold my life but as a weapon now 
Against the infidel ! He shall not reap 
His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray 
To his false gods — No ! save by trembling 

stealth. 
Whilst I can grasp a sword ! Wherefore, noble 

friends, 
Think not of truce with me ! — but think to quaff 
Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to rest 
In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds 
Barb'd in the hall beside you. — Now turn back, 

[He throws a spear on the ground before them. 
Ye that are weary of your armour's load, 
Pass o'er the spear, away ! 

They all shout. A Chatillon ! 

We'll follow thee, all ! all ! 

Rai. A soldier's thanks ! 

[Turns away from them agitated. 
There's one face gone, and thatabrother's!(/l/oMj.) 

War !— 
War to the paynim — War ! March and set up 
On our stronghold the banner of the Cross, 
Never to sink ! — 

[ Trumpets sound. They march on, winding 
through the rocks with military music. 

Enter GASTON, an asred vassal of RAIMER'S, as an 
armed follower — RAIMER addresses him. 

You come at last ! — And she — where left you her ! 
The Paynim maid ? 

Gas. I found her guides, my lord, 

Of her own race, and left her on the way 
To reach her father's tents. 

Ra.i. Speak low ' — the tale 

Must rest with us. It must be thought she died 
I can trust you. 

Gas. Your father trusted me. 

Rai. He did, he did ! — my father ! You hava 
been 



I)E CHATILLON. 



545 



Long absent, and yon bring a troubled eye 
Back with you. — Gaston! licard you aught of 
him ? 

Gas. Whom means my lord ? 

Rai. {impaliently.) Old man, you know too 
well— 
Aymer, my brother. 

Gas. I have seen liim. 

Rai. How ! 

Seen him ! Speak on. 

Gas. Another than my chief 

Should have my life before the shameful tale I 

Rai. Speak quickly. 

Gas. In the desert, as I journey'd back, 

A band of Arabs met me on the way, 
And I became their captive. Till last night — 

Rai. Go on 1 — Last night ? 

Gas. Tliey slumber'd by their fires — 

/could not sleep, wiicn one — I thought liim one 
O' tlie tribe at first, came up and loosed my bonds. 
And led me from the shadow of tiie tents, 
Pointing my way in silence. 

Rai. Well, and he — 

You thought him one of the tribe. 

Gas. Ay, till we stood 

In the clear moonlight forth — and then, my 
lord 

Rai, You dare not say 'twas Aymer ? 

Gas. Woe and shame ! 

It was, it was ! 

Rai. In their vile garb too ? 

Gas. Yes, 

Turban'd and robed like them. 

Rai. What! — did he speak? 

Gas. No word, but waved his hand, 

Forbidding speech to me. 

Rai Tell me no more ! — 

Lost, lost — for ever lost ! — He that was rear'd 
Under my father's roof with me, and grew 
Up by my side to glory — lost ! — is this 
My work ? — who dares to call it mine ? And yet, 
Had I not dealt so sternly with his soul 

In its deep anguish What ! he wears their 

garb 
In the face of Heaven? You saw the turban 

on him ? 
You should have struck him to the earth, and so 
Put out our shame for ever ! 

Gas. Lift my sword 

Against your father's son ! 

Rai. My father's son ! 

Ay, and so loved ! — tliat yearning love for him 
Was the last thing death conquer'd ! see'st thou 
there ? 

(TAe banner of the Cross is raised on the 
fortress. 
The very banner he redeem'd for us 
I' tiic fight at Cairo ! No ! by yon bright sign 
He sliall not pcrisli I — tliis way — follow me — 
I '11 toll thcc of a thought. 

{Suddenly slopping him. 
Take heed, old man ! 
Thou hast a fearful secret in tiiy grasp : 
Let me not see thee wear mysterious looks — 
But no I thou lov'st our name I — 1 '11 trust thee, 
IJastou ! 

48* 



SCENE III. — AN ARAB ENCAMPMRNT ROUND A FEW 

PALM-TREKS IN THE DESERT. WATCH-FIHES IN 

THE BACKGROUND. — NIGHT. 

Several Arabs enter with AYMER. 

Arab Chief. Thou hast fouglit bravely, stran- 
ger ; now, come on 
To siiarc the spoil. 

Aym. 1 reck not of it. Go, 

Leave me to rest. 

Arab. Well, thou hast earn'd thy rest 

With a red sabre. Be it as thou wilt. 

{They go out. — He throws himself under a 
palm-tree. 
Aym. This were an hour — if they would an- 
swer us, 
— They from whose viewless world no answer 

comes — 
To hear their whispering voices. Would they but 
Speak once, and say they loved ! 
If I could hear thy tlirilling voice once more. 
It would be well witii me. Moraima, speak ! 

(Ramier enters, disgviscd as a dervise, 
Moraima, speak ! — No ! the dead cannot love 1 
Rai. What doth the stranger here ? — is there 
not mirth 
Aroimd the watch-fires yonder ? 

Aym. Mirth ? — away !— 

I 've nought to do with mirth — begone ! 

Rai. They tell 

Wild tales by that red light; — wouldst thou not 

hear 
Of eastern marvels ? 

Ay7n, Hence ! — I heed them not. 

Rai. Nay then, hear me ! 
Aym. Thee! 

Rai. . Yes, I know a tale 

Wilder than theirs. 

Aym. {raising himself in surprise.) Thou 

know'st I — 
Rai. {without minding, continues.) A tale of 
one. 
Who flung in madness to the reckless deep 
A gem beyond all price. 

Aym. My day is closed. 

What is aught human unto me ? 

Rai. Yet mark ! 

His name was of the noblest — dost thou heed*?— 
Even in a land of princely chivalry ; 
Brightness was on it — but he cast it down. 

Aym. I will not hear — speak'st thou of chivalry? 

Rai. Yes ! I have been upon thy native hills — 

There's a grey cliff juts proudly from their 

woods, 
Crown'd with baronial towers. — Eemcmberest 

thou ? 
And there 's a chapel by the moaning sea ■ 
Thou know'st it well — tall pines wave over it, 
Darliening llie heavy banners, and tlic tombs- 
Is not the Cross upon thy lathers' tombs ? — 
Christian ! what dost tliou here ? 

Aym. (starting vp indignantly.) Man ' vvno 
art thou ? 
Thy voice disturbs my soul. Speak ' I will knew 
Thy right to question m«. 




Rai. (throwing off Jiis disguise, stands hefore 
him in the full dress of a Crusader.) My 
birthright ! — look ! 
Ay7n. Brother ! 

{Retreating from hint with horror.) 
— Her blood is on your hands ! — keep back ! 
Rai. (scornfully.) Nay, keep the Paynim's 
garb from touching mine — 
Answer me thence ! — what dost thou here ? 

Aym. You shrink 

From your own work I — you, that have made me 

thus ! 
Wherefore are you here ? Are you not afraid 
To stand beneath the awful midnight sky, 
And you a murderer ? Leave me. 

Rai. . I lift up 

No murderer's brow to Heaven ! 

Aym. You dare speak thus ! 
Do not the bright stars, with their searching rays, 
Strike through your guilty soul ? Oh, no ! — 

't is well. 
Passing well ! Murder ! Make the earth's har- 
vests grow 
With Faynim blood! — Heaven wills it! — The 

free air. 
The sunshine — I forgot — they were not made 
For infidels. Blot out the race from day ! 
Who talks of murder ? Murder ! when you die, 
Claim your soul's place and happiness i' the name 
Of that good deed ! (In a tone of deep feeling. 

If you had loved a flower, 
I would not have destroy'd it ! 

Rai. {with emotion.) Brother ! 

Aym. {impeiuously.) No ! — 

No brother now ! — she knelt to you in vain ; 
And tliat hath set a gulf — a boundless gulf — 
Between our souls. Your very face is changed — 
There 's a red cloud shadowing it : your forehead 

wears 
The marks of blood — her blood ! 

{In a triumphant tone. 
But j^ou prevail not ! You have made the dead 
The mighty — the victorious ! Yes ! you thought 
To dash her image into fragments down. 
And you have given it power — such deep sad 

power 
I see nought else on earth ! 

Rai. {aside.) I dare not say she lives. 
{To Aymer, holding up the cross of his sword. 
You see not this ! 
Once by our father's grave I ask'd, and here, 
I' the silence of the waste, I ask once more 
Have you abjured your faith ? 

Aym. Why are you come 

To torture me ? No, no,.I have not. No ! 
But you have sent the torrent through my soul, 
And by their deep strong roots torn fiercely up 
Tilings that were part of it — inborn feelings — 

thoughts — 
I know not wnat I cling to ! 

Rai, Aymer ! yet 

Heaven hatn not closed its gates ! Return, return. 
Before the shadow of the palm-tree fades 
I' the waning moonlight. Heaven gives time. 

Return, 
My brother ! By our early days — the love 
That nurtured us ! — the holy dust of those 



That sleep i' the tomb ! — Sleep . no, they cannot 

sleep ! 
Doth the night bring no voices from the dead 
Back on your soul ? 

Aym. {turning from him.) Yes — hers! 
Rai. {indignantly turning off.) Why should 1 

strive ? 
Why doth it cost me these deep throes to fling 
A weed off? — {Checking himselj 

Brother, hath the stranger come 
Between our hearts for ever ? Yet return — 
Win back your fame, my brother ! 

Aym. Fame again ! 

Leave me the desert ! — leave it me I I hate 
Your false world's glittering draperies, that press 

down 
Tiie o'erlabour'd heart ! They have crush'd mine. 

Your vain 
And hollow-sounding words are wasted now : 
You should adjure me by the name of him 
That slew his son's young bride ! — our ancestor — 
That were a spell ! Fame ! fame ! — your hand 

hath rent 
The veil from off your world! To speak of fame, 
When the soul is parch'd like mine ! Avi'ay ! 
I have join'd these men because they war with 

man 
And all his hollow pomp ! Will you go hence ? 
(Fiercely.) Why do I talk thus with a murderer ? 

. 4^' 

This is the desert, where true words may rise 
Up unto Heaven i' the stillness ! Leave it me — 
The free wild desert ! (Aral) Chief enters.) 

Stranger, we have shared 

The spoil, forgetting not A Christian here ! 

Ho ! sons of Kedar ! — 't is De Chatillon ! 

This way ! — surround him ! There 's an Emir's 

wealth 
Set on his life ! Come on ! 

(Several Arabs rush in and surround Rai- 
MER, who, after vainly endeavouring to 
force his way through them, is made 
pirisoner. As they are leading him away, 
Aymer, who has stood for a mojnent as 
if bewildered, rushes forward, and 
strikes down one of the Arabs. 
Rai. And he stands there 

To see me bought and sold ! Death, death ! — not 
chains ! 
Aym. OS from my brother, infidel ! 

(The others hurry Raipjer away. 
(Recollecting himself.) Why, then, Heaven 
Is just ! — So ! now I see it ! Blood for blood ! 

(Again rushing forward. 
No ! he shall feel remorse! — I '11 rescue him. 
And make him weep for her ! [He goes out. 



ACT THE FIFTH. 

SCENE I. A HALL IN THE FORTRESS OCCUPIED BY DE 

CHATILLOn's FOLLOWERS. 

Knights listening to a Troubadour. 

Her. No more soft strains of love. Good Vida!, 
sing 



DE CI-IATILLON. 



04? 



TIi3 imprison'd warrior's lay. Tliere 's a proud 

tone 
Of lolly sadness in it. 

(tuoitbadour sings.) 

'T was a trumpet's pealing- sound, 

And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's 

tower, 
And a Christian host in its pride and power, 

Through llie pass beneath him wound. 
Cease awliile, clarion ! clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still. 

" I knew 't was a trumpet's note ! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam, 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream, 

And their plumes to the glad wind float. 
Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let thera hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" I am here with my heavy chain ! 
And I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
And an eagle rushing to the sky. 

And a host to its battle-plain ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! &c., &.c. 

" Must I pine in my fetters here ? ■ 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's 

flight. 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight, 

And the trumpet in mine ear ? 
Cease awhile, clarion !" &,c., &c. 

AYMEE enters hurriedly. 
Aym, Silence, thou minstrel, silence ! 
Her. Aymer, here ! 

And in that garb ! Seize on the renegade ! 
Kniglits, he must die ! 

Arjm. {scornfully.) Die ! die ! — the fearful 
threat ! 
To be thrust out of this same blessed world. 
Your world — all yours ! (Fiercely.) But I will 

not be made 
A thing to circle with your pomps of death, 
Your cJiains, and guards, and scaffolds! Back! 

I '11 die 

As the free lion dies ! — {Drawing Ms sahre. 

Her, What seek'st thou here ? 

Ay?n. Nought but to give your Christian 

swords a deed 

Worthier than — where 's your chief? in the Pa}'- 

nim's bonds ! 
Made the wild Arabs' prize ! — Ay, Heaven is just ! 
If ye will rescue him, then follow me: 
I know the way they bore him ! 

Her. Follow thee ! 

Recreant ! deserter of thy house and faith ! 
I'o tliiuk true knights would follow thee again ! 
'T is all some snare — away ! 

Aym. Some snare ! — Heaven ! Heaven ! 

Is my name sunk to this? Must men first crush 
My soul, then spurn the ruin they have made ? 
— Why, let him perish ! — blood lor blood I — must 

earth cry out 
In vain? — Wine, wine, we'll revel here ! 
On, minstrel, with thy song ! 

{Minstrel continues the song. 
" They are gone, they have all pass'd by ! 



They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
They that I loved with a brother's heart, 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion ! clarion, pour thy bli'jt ! 
Sound, for the captive's dream of hope is past !' 

Aym. {starting up.) That was the lay he loved 
in our boyish days — 
And he must die forsaken ! — No, by Heaven 
He shall not ! — Follow nie ! I say your chief 
Is bought and sold ! — Is tliere no generous trust 
Left in your souls ? De Foix, I saved your life 
At Ascalon ! Du Mornay, you and I 
On Jaffa's wall together set our breasts 
Against a tiiousand spears ! What ! have I foughl 
Beside you, shared your cup, slept in your tents, 
And ye can think — {Dashing off his turban. 

Look on my burning brow I 
Read if there's falsehood branded on it — read 
The marks of trcacliery there ! 

Knights {gathering round him, cry out.) No, 
no, come on ! 
To the rescue ! lead us on ! we 'II trust thee still ! 

Aym. Follow, then ! — this way — If I die for 
him. 
There will be vengeance ! — He shall think of mo 
To his last hour ! [Exeunt. 

SCENE II.— A PAVILION IN THE CAMP OF MELECH. 

MELECH and SADI. 

Mel. It must be that these sounds and sights 
of war 
Shake her too gentle nature. Yes, her cheek 
Fades hourly in my sight ! What other cause- 
None, none ! — She must go hence ! Choose from 

thy band 
The bravest, Sadi ! and the longest tried. 

And I will send my child 

Voice loithout. Where is your chief? 

{Arab and Turkish Soldiers enter with Dk 
Chatillon. 
Arab Chief. The sons of Kedar's tribe have 
brought to the son 
Of the Propliet's house a prisoner ! 

Mel. {half drawing his sword.) Chatillon ! 
That slew my boy ! Tiianks for the avenger's 

hour ! 
Sadi, their guerdon — give it them -the gold ! 
And me the vengeance ! 

{Looking at Raimer, who holds the npper 
fragment of his sword, and see7ns lost 
in thought.) This is he 
That slew my first-born ! 

Rai. {to himself.) Surely there leap'd up 

A brother's heart witliin him ! Yes, he struck 

To tlie earth a Paynim 

Mel. {raisiiig his voice.) Christian ! thou auat 
been 
Our nation's deadliest foe ! 

Rai. {looking up and smiling proudly.) 'Tii 
joy to hear 
I have not lived in vain ! 

Mel. Thou bear'st thyself 

With a conqueror's mien ! A' hat is thy hope fiom 
me? 
Rai. A soldier s death. 



548 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Mel. {hastily.) Then thou would'st /ear 

a slave's ? 
Rai. Fear ! — As if men's own spirit had not 
power 
To make his death a triumph ! Waste not words; 
Let my blood bathe thine own sword. Infidel ! 
I slew thy son ! {Looking at his broken sword.) 
Ay, there's the red mark here ! 
Mel. {approaching him.) Thou darest to tell 
me this! {A tumult heard without, voices 
crying — A Chatillon ! 
Rai. My "brother's voice ! He is saved ! 
Mel. {calling.) What, ho! my guards ! 

(Aymer enters with the knights Jighting their 
way through Melech's soldiers, who are 
driven before them. 
Aym. On with the war-cry of our ancient 
house, 
For the Cross— De Chatillon ! 
{Knights shout.) For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 
(Raimer attempts to break from his guards. 
Sadi enters with more soldiers to the as- 
sistance of Melech. Aymer and the 
Knights are overpowered, Aymer is 
wounded and falls. 
Mel. Bring fetters — bind the captives ! 
Rai. Lost — all lost ! 

No ! — he is saved ! 

{Breaking from his guards, he goes up to 
Aymer. 
Brother, my brother ! hast thou pardon'd me 
That which I did to save thee ? Speak ! — forgive ! 
Aym. {turning from him.) Thou see'st I die for 

thee ! — She is avenged ! 
Rai. I am no murderer ! — hear me ! — turn to 
me ! 
We are parting by the grave ! 

(MoRAiMA enters veiled, and goes up to 
Melech. 
Mor. Father ! — O ! look not sternly on thy 
child. 
I came to plead. They said thou hadstcondemn'd 

A Christian knight to die 

Md. Hence — to thy tent ! 

Away — begone ! 

Aym. {attempting to rise.) Moraima ! — hath her 
spirit come 
To make death beautiful ? Moraima ! — speak. 
Mor. It was his voice I — Aymer ! 

{She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil. 

Aym. Thou livust — thou livest ! 

1 knew thou could'st not die! — Look on me still. 

Thou livest ! — and makest this world so full of 

joy— 

But I depart ! 

Mel. {approaching her.) Moraima ! — hence .' is 
thi.'' 
A place for thee ? 

Mor. Away ! away ! 

I'hcre is no place but tnis for me on earth ! 
WMiere should I go ? Tiiere is no place but this ! 
My soul is bound to it ! 

Mel. {to the Guards.) Back, slaves, and look 
not on her ! {The-tj retreat to the background. 
'T was for this 
She droop'd to the earth. 

AytT.. Moraima, fare thee well ! 



Think on me ! — I have loved thee ! I take hence 
That deep love with my soul ! for well I know 
It must be deathless! 

Mor. Oh I thou hast not known 

What woman's love is ! Aymer, Aymer. stay ! 
If I could die for thee ! My heart is grown 
So strong in its despair ! 

Rai. {turning from them.) And all the past 
Forgotten ! — our young days ! — His last thoughts 

hers ! — 
The Infidel's i 

Aym. {with a violent effort turning his head 
round.) Thou art no murderer ! Peace 
Between us — peace, my brother ! — In our deaths 
We shall be join'd once more ! 

Rai. {holding the cross of the sword before him.) 
Look yet on this ! 
Ay7n. If thou hadst only told me that she lived ! 
— But our hearts meet at last ! 

{Presses the cross to his lips 
Moraima ! save my brother ! Look on me ! 
Joy — there is joy in death 1 

{He dies on Raimer's arm 
Mor. Speak — speak once more! 

Aymer ! how is it that I call on thee, 
And that thou answerest not? Have we not loved? 
Death ! death ! — and this is — death ! 

Rai. So thou art gone, 

Aymer ! I never thought to weep again — 
But now — farewell ! — Thou wert the bravest 

knight 
That e'er laid lance in rest — and thou didst wear 
The noblest form that ever woman's eye 
Dwelt on with love ; and till that fatal dream 
Came o'er thee ! — Aymer ! Aymer ! thou wert still 
The most true-hearted brother I — there thou art 
Whose breast was once my shield ! — I never 

thought 
That foes should see me weep ! but there thou art, 

Aymer, my brother ! 

Mor. {suddenly rising.) With his last, last 
breath 
He bade me save his brother ! 

{Falling at her father'' s feet. 
Father, spare 
The Christian — spare him ! 

Mel. For thy sake spare him 

That slew thy father's son ! — Shame to thy race ! 

{To the Soldiers in the background. 

Soldiers! come nearer with your levell'd spears ! 

Yet nearer; — Gird him in! — my boy's young 

blood 
Is on his sword. — Christian, abjure thy faith, 
Or die — thine hour is come ! 

Rai. {turning and throvnng him.selfon the wea- 
pons of the Soldiers.) Thou hast mine an- 
swer, Infidel ! 
{Calling aloud to the Knights as he falls back. 
Knights of France . 
Herman ! De Foix ! Du Mornay . be ye strong 1 
Your hour will come ! 

Must the old war-cry cease ? 
{Half raising hi?nself, and waving the 
Cross triumphantly. 
For the Cross— De Chatillon ! 
\ {He dies- 

{The Curtain falls.) 



THOUGHTS DURIIvG SICKNESS. 



5i'3 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 



I.— INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 

Thought ! O Memory ! gems for ever heaping 
IIi<;h in the illumined chambers of the mind, 
And thou, divine Imagination ! keeping 
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts en- 
shrined ; 
How in one moment rent and disentwined, 
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall, 
Your glorious combinations ! — broken all, 
As the sand pillars by the desert's wind 
Scattcr'd to whirling dust ! — Oh, soon uncrown'd ! 
Well may your parting swift, your strange return, 
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, 
Guiding its chaslen'd vision to discern 
IIow by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be 

pass'd 
Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast. 



II.-SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT. 

Thou art like Night ! O Sickness ! deeply stilling 
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound, 
And tlie dim quiet of my chamber filling 
With low svi'eet voices by Life's tumult drown'd. 
Thou art like awful Night ! — thou gather'st round 
The things that are unseen — though close they 

lie,— 
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, 
Givcst their dread presence to our mental eye. 
— Thou art like starry, spiritual Night ! 
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way. 
And revelations, which the common light 
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray 
All outward life : — Be welcome then thy rod. 
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God. 



IL — ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE 
ANGEL OF DEATH* 

Well might thine awful image thus arise 
With that iiigh calm upon thy regal brow, 
And the deep solemn sweetness in those eyes, 
Unto the glorious Artist ! — Who but thou 
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow 



For Him with permanency ?-^ who make those 

gleams 
Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, 
Immortal things? — Let others trembling bow, 
Angel of Death ! before thee. — Not to those, 
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, 
Art thou a (earful shape ! — and oh ! lor me, 
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, 
Did not the cords of strong affection twine 
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee I 



IV.— REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE. 

O, NATURE ! thou didst rear me for thine own, 
With thy free singing-birds and mountain brooks ; 
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks, 
With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone ; 
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone 
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves 
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, 
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne 
'-Midst the green hills : and now, that far estranged 
From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath, 
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged, 
So glows the love of thee, that not for Death 
Seems that pure passion's fervour — but jrdain'd 
To meet on brighter shores thy Majesty anstain'd 



*Thissonnet was suggeslfid by the following pasange out of 
Mr8. Jameson's Visits and Shctches at Home and Jib road, 
in a flescription she gives of a visit paid to llie artist Retzsch, 
near Dresden : — " Afterwards ho placed upon his eiiscl a won- 
derous lane, which made me shrink back— not with terror, — for 
it wasperfccdy beautifnl. — but with awe, for it was unspeak- 
ably fearful : The hair streamed back from iho pale brow — the 
orbs of siclit appeared ai first two dark, hollow, unfaihomable 
Bpaces. like, those in a skull ; but when I drew nearer and looked 
aitciilively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of llio 
depth of the shadow, as if from the bottom of an abyss. The 
Mouth was divinely sweet, butsad, and the softest repose rested 
on avety feature. 'Ihia, he told me v/aslhoJlnscl of Death." 



v.— FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. 

Whither, oh ! whither wilt thou wing thy way ? 
What solemn region first upon thy sight 
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight ? 
What hosts, magnificent in dread array ? 
My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay. 
After long strife is rent ? — fond, fruitless guest ! 
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest. 
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play, 
And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal'd, 
A glimpse of summer sky : — nor knows the field 
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried, 
— Thou art that bird I — of what beyond thee lies 
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies, 
Knowing but this — that thou shalt find thy Guide '. 



' VI.— FLOWERS. 

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again 
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room 1 
For not alone ye bring a joyous train 
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom — 
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom. 
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, 
Of stars that look down on your folded bells 
Througii dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume 
Greelinjj the wanderer of the iiill and grove 
Like sudden music ; more than this ye bring- 
Far more ; ye whisper of the all-fostering love 
Which thus hatii clothed you, and whoso dove 

like wing 
Broods o'er the sufferer drawnig fever'd breath, 
Whether the couch be that of life or deaUi- 



550 



MRS. HEMANS' WORK&. 



VII.— RECOVERY* 

Back tiien, once more to breast the waves of life, 
To battle on against the unceasing spray, 
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife, 
And rise to strife again ; yet on my way, 
Oh ! linger still, thou light of better day, 

* Written under the false impreaaion occasioned by a tempo- 
rary improvement in strength. 



Born in the hours of loneliness, and you, 
Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true, 
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, 
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn 
Back on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-wOrr* 
Now leave me not ! but as, profoundly pure, 
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake 
Unchang'd, e'en thus with me your journey take 
Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low 
world obscure. 



[In this collected edition of the various writings 
of Mrs. Kemans, chronological arrangement has 
been adhered to, in so far as any useful purpose 
could be attained by it ; and, when departed from, 
it has only been to a small extent, and that for the 
purpose of diffusing throughout the volume a great- 
er degree of variety. 

In a very general point of view, the intellectual 
career of Mrs. Hemans may be divided, as we 
have already hinted, into two separate eras, — the 
first of which may be termed the classical, and 
comprehends the productions of her pen, from 
" the Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy" 
and " Modern Greece," down to the " Historic 
Scenes" and the " Translations from Camoens," 
— and the last the romantic, which commences 
with the " Forest Sanctuary," and includes " Re- 
cords of Woman," together with nearly all her 
later efforts. 

In point of poetical merit, there can be little 
doubt tliat the last section far transcends the first, 
and forms the groundwork — whether we regard 
conception or execution — on which her peculiar 
fame will be tested by posterity. The former 
series of poems, however, must be always reck- 
oned valuable, not only in themselves as compo- 
sitions, but as showing the progress of an intrin- 
sically poetical mind towards its maturity. 

But as noonday has its morning, so even these 
jrere only the blossoms from antecedent buds ; 
rind, as matter of literary curiosity, we have ap- 
pended a selection from Mrs. liemans's really 
juvenile efforts, sufEcient to show the first expan- 
Bions of that genius, which time and exertion 
afterwards ripened into "the bright consummate 
fiower." Even after the early poetical attempts 
of Cowlev and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, 
ai'-d Byron, some of the following outpourings of 
pvjetical senti'nent may be read with no common 
ii'irjvest.l 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



From a Volume of Poems, by Felicia Dorothea Browne 
published in 1808, containing Pieces written between the age» 
of eight and thirteen. 



OjNT MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGJJT. 



Clad in all their brightest green. 
This day the verdant fields are seen , 
The tuneful birds begin their lay 
To celebrate thy natal day. 

The breeze is still, the sea is calm, 
And the whole scene combines to charm | 
The flowers revive, this charming Moy, 
Because it is thy natal day. 

The sky is blue, the day serene, 
And only pleasure now is seen ; 
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, 
Combine to bless thy natal day. 



A PRAYER. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE. 



Oh ! God, my Father and my Friend, 
Ever thy blessings to me send ; 
Let me have Virtue for my guide,' 
And Wisdom always at my side ; 
Thus cheerfully through life I '11 gOj 
Nor ever feel the sting of woe .; 
Contented with the humblest lot, 
Happy, though in the meanest col. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



551 



ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELKVEN. 



The infant muse, Jehovah ! would aspire 

To swell the adoration of tlie lyre : 

Source of all good, oh ! teach my voice to sing 

Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beauties 

spring ; 
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, 
Who saidst to Chaos, " let the earth arise." 
Oh ! autlior of the rich luxuriant year, 
Love, Truth, and Mercy, in thy works appear : 
Witliin their orbs the planets dost ThoU keep, 
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep. 
Oh ! could I number thy inspiring ways, 
And wake the voice of animated praise ! 
Ah, no 1 the theme shall swell a cherub's note ; 
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 
'T is not for me, in lowly strains, to sing 
Thee, God of mercy, — heaven's immortal King. 
Yet to that happiness I 'd fain aspire ; 
Oh ! fill my heart with elevated fire: 
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, 
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend. 
Yes ! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, 
And " fill my beating heart with sacred fire !" 
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given, 
Raise me to join Eliza,* blest in Heaven. 



SONNET TO MY MOTHER. 

WRITTEN AT THE A1E OF TWELVE. 



To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, 

I pour the genuine numbers free from art ; 
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth, 

For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart. 
Oh ! be it mine, with sweet and pious care, 

To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; 
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear, 

With fond endearments to impart relief. 
Be mine thy warm affection to repay 

With duteous love in thy declining hours ; 

My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers. 
Perennial roses to adorn thy way ; 
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile, 
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile. 



SONNET. 



WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 



*Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest 
May hover round Ihe virtuous man's repose ; 

And otl. in visions animate his breast. 
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. 

* A sisto,- whom the author had lost. 



The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, 

May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, 
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul, 

And vvliispcr to his bosom liallow'd peace. 
Ah ! tender tiiought, that oft with sweet relief, 

May charm the bosom of a weeping friend ; 
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief, 

And pensive pleasure with devotion blend 
While oil he fancies music sweetly faint, 
The airy lay of some departed saint. 



RURAL WALKS. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 



Oh ! may I ever pass my happy hours 

In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers ; 

For every spot in sylvan beauty drest. 

And every landscape charms my youthful breast. 

And much I love to hail the vernal morn. 

When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn ; 

And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray 

To cull the tender rosebuds in my way ; 

And seek in every wild secluded dell, 

The weeping cowslip and the azure bell ; 

With afl the blossoms, fairer in the dew, 

To form the gay festoon of varied hue. 

And oft I seek the cultivated green, 

The fertile meadow, and the village scene ; 

Where rosy children sport around the cot. 

Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. 

And there I wander by the cheerful rill. 

That murmurs near the osiers and the mill; 

To view the smiling peasants turn the hay. 

And listen to their pleasing festive lay. 

I love to loiter in the spreading grove, 

Or in the mountain scenery to rove ; 

Where summits rise in awful grace around. 

With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown'd ; 

Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, 

" And frown upon the vale" with grandeur wild 

And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, 

Array'd in all the blending shades of Time. 

The airy upland and the woodland green, 
The valley, and romantic mountain-scene; 
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain. 
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane; 
" And every spot in sylvan beauty drest. 
And every landscape, charms my youthful breabt. 



SONNET. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 



I LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour. 

When evening spreads around her twilight veit, 
When dews descend on every languid flower, 

And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. 
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide, 

While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play 
To hear the waters murmur as they glide. 

To mark the fading smile ot closing day 




There let me linger, blest in visions dear, 

Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas; 

While melting- sounds decay on fancy's ear, 
Of airy nnisic floating on the breeze. 

For still when evening sheds the genial dews, 

That pensive hour is sacred to the muse. 



From " The Domestic Affections and Other 
Poems," by Felicia Dorothea Browne. Pub- 
lished in 1812. 



TO MY MOTHER. 



If e'er for human bliss or woe 

I feel the sympathetic glow ; 

If e'er my heart has learn'd to know 

The gen'rous wish or prayer ; 
Who sow'd the germ with tender hand ? 
Who mark'd its infant leaves expand ? 

My mother's fostering care. 

And if one flower of char!ns refined 
May grace tiie garden of my mind ; 

'T was she wiio nursed it there : 
She loved to cherish and adorn 

Each blossom of the soil ; 
To banish every weed and thorn, 

That oft opposed her toil ! 

And oh ! if e'er I sigh'd to claim 
The palm, tlie living palm of Fame, 

The glowing wreath of praise ; 
If e'er I wish'd the glittering stores, 
That Fortune on her fav'rite pours ; 
'T was but that wealth and fame, if mine. 
Round Thee, with streaming rays might shine, 

And gild thy sun-bright days ! 

Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power, 
Might then irradiate every hour ; 
For these, my mother ! well I know, 
On thee no raptures could bestow ; 
But could thy bounty, warm and kind. 
Be, like thy wishes, unconjined ; 
And fall, as manna from the skies, 
And bid a train of blessings rise, 

Diffusing joy and peace ; 
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright. 
For thee would beam with softer light. 
Than all the diamond's crystal rays. 
Than all tlie emerald's lucid blaze ; 
And joys of heaven would thiill thy lieart. 
To bid one bosom-grief depart, 

One tear, one sorrow cease ! 
Then, oh ! may Heaven, that loves to bless. 
Bestow the power to cheer distress; 
]\lake Thee its minister below, 
']'o light the cloudy path of woe ; 
To visit tile deserted cell, 
Where indigence is doom'd to dwell; 
To raise when drooping to the earth, 
The l)!of!Foms of neglected worth; 



And round, with liberal hand, dispense 
The sunshine of beneficence i 

But ah ! if Fate should still deny 

Delights like these, too rich and high ; 

In grief and pain thy steps assail. 

In life's remote and wintry vale ; 

Then, as the wild jEolian lyre, ♦ 

Complains with soft entrancing number 
When the lone storm awakes the wire. 

And bids enchantment cease to slumber, 
So filial love, with soothing voice. 
E'en then, shall teach thee to rejoice ; 
E'en then, shall sweeter, milder sound, 
When sorrow's tempest raves around ; 
While dark misfortune's gales destroy 
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy ! 



TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER. 

ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RE 
TREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE 
OF CORUNNA. 



Though dark are the prospects and heavy tha 
hours, 

Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way 
Yet still shall aflfection adorn it with flowers, 

Whose fragrance shall never decay I 

And lo ! to embrace thee, my Brother ! she flies, 
With artless delight, that no words can bespeak ; 

With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes. 
With a smile and a glow on her cheek ! 

From the trophies of war, from the spear and the 
shield, 

From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest ; 
Oh ! welcome again, to the grove and the field. 

To the vale of retirement and rest. 

Then warble, sweet muse ! with the lyre and the 
voice. 

Oh ! gay be the measure and sportive the strain 
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice. 

To meet thee, , my Brother I again. 

When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true. 
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory 
crown'd ; 

How often would fancy present to my view, 
The horrors that waited thee round ! 

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my 
prayer. 
That Heaven would protect thee from danger 
and harm ; 
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, 
In the heat of the combat's alarm ! 

How sad and how often descended the tear, 
(Ah ! long shall remembrance the image retain) 

How mournful tiie sigh, when I trembled with fear 
I might never behold thee again I 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



553 



But llie prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er, 
And the tear-drop is fled, like tlie dew on the 
rose : 
Tliy dangers, our tears, have endear'd thee the 
more, 
And my bosom with tenderness glows i 

And oh ! when the dreams, the enchantments of 
youth 
Bright and transient, have fled, like the rain- 
bow, away, 
My aifection for thee, still unfading in truth, 
Shall never, oh ! never decay I 

No time can impair it, no change can destroy, 
Whate'er be the lot I am destined to share; 

It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy. 
And beam tlirough the cloud of despair ! 



TO MY ELDEST BROTHER, 

(with the BRITISH ARMY IN PORTtlOAL.) 



How many a day, in various hues array'd. 
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade. 
How many an hour, on silent wing is past, 
O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last! 
Since then has childhood ripen'd into youth. 
And fancy's dreams have fled from sober truth; 
Her splendid fabrics melting into air. 
As sage experience waved the wand of care ! 
Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh, 
And the tear trembles in affection's eye ! 
When shall we meet again ? — with glowing ray, 
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day ; 
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear, 
And sings benignly still — that day is near ! 
She, with brignt eye, and soul-bewitching voice, 
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice; 
Tells, that the hour approaches, to restore 
Our cherish'd wanderer to his home once more ; 
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear, 
To faith still true, affection still sincere ! 
Then the past woes, the future's dubious lot. 
In tliat blest meeting shall be all forgot ! 
And joy's full radiance gild that sun-bright hour, 
Though all around tli' impending storm shall 
lower. 

Now distant fir, amidst the intrepid host, 
Albion's firm sons, on Lusitania's coast, 
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, 
Where glory's pole-star beams their constant 

guide,) 
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray 
To Cambria's vales and mountains far away ? 
Docs fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam, 
And paint the greeting that awaits at home? 
Does memory's pencil oft, in mellowing hue, 
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew ; 
In softer tints delighting to retrace 
Each tender image and each well-known face ? 
Yes! wanderer, yes! thy spirit flies to those. 
Whose love, unalter'd, warm and faithful glows, 
2 M 49 



Oh ! could that love, through life's eventiul hourst, 
Illume thy scenes and strew tliy path with flowers i 
Perennial joy sliould harmonize thy breast, 
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest ! 
But though our tenderness can but bestow 
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe ; 
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame. 
In storms, in sunshine, far and near — the same . 
Still dwell enthroned within tii' unvarying heart, 
And firm and mlal — but with life depart ! 
Bronvvylfa, Feb. 8tli, 18H. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH 



Oh, thou ! whose pure, exalted mind. 

Lives in this record, fair and bright; 
Oh, thou ! whose blameless life combined 
Soft female charms and grace refined, 
With science and with light ! 
Celestial maid ! whose spirit soar'd 

Beyond this vale of tears; 
Whose clear, enlighten'd eye explored 
The lore of years ! 

Daughter of Heaven ! if here, e'en here. 

The wing of towering thought was thine 
If, on this dim and mundane sphere. 
Fair truth illumed thy bright career, 
With morning-star divine ; 
How must thy bless'd ethereal soul 
Now kindle in her noon-tide ray • 
And hail, unfetter'd by control. 
The Fount of Day! 

E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes, 

Undimm'd by doubt, nor veil'd by fear, 
Behold a chain of wonders rise; 
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies, 
Transcendant, pure and clear ! 
E'en now, the fair, the good, the true, 

From mortal sight conceal'd. 
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, 
In light reveal'd ! 

If Aere, the lore of distant time. 

And learning's flowers were all thine own 
How must thy mind ascend sublime, 
Matured in heaven's empyreal clime. 
To light's unclouded throne ! 
Perhaps, e'en now, thy kindling glance, 

Each orb of living fire explores ; 
Darts o'er creation's wide expanse, 
Admires — adores ! 

Oh ! if that lightning-eye surveys 
This dark and sublunary plain , 
How must the wreath of human praise 
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze. 
So dim, so pale, so vain 2 
How like a faint and shadowy dream. 
Must quiver learning's brightest ray ; 



554 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



While on thine eyes with lucid stream, 
Tlie sun of glory pours his beam, 
Perfection's day ! 



THE SILVER LOCKS. 

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND. 



Though youth may boast the curls that flow, 

In sunny waves of auburn glow ; 
As graceful on thy hoary head, 
Has time the robe of honour spread, 
And there, oh ! softly, softly shed 
His wreath of snow ! 

As frost-work on the trees display'd. 
When weeping Flora leaves the shade. 
E'en more than Flora, charms the sight ; 
E'en so thy locks of purest white. 
Survive, in age's frost-work bright, 

Youth's vernal rose decay'd ! 

To grace the nymph whose tresses play 
Light on the sportive breeze of May, 
Let other bards the garland twine, 
Where sweets of every hue combine ; 
Those locks revered, that silvery shine. 
Invite my lay ! 

Less white the summer-cloud sublime. 
Less white the winter's fringing rime; 

Nor do Belinda's lovelier seem, 

(A Poet's blest immortal theme,) 

Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam 
Of rev'rend Time I 

Long may the graceful honours smile, 

Like moss on some declining pile ; 
Oh ! much revered ! may filial care, 
Around thee, duteous, long repair. 
Thy joys with tender bliss to share. 
Thy pains beguile ! 

Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave, 
Long, long, your much-loved beauty save ! 
May bliss your latest evening crown, 
Disarm life's winter of its frown. 
And soft ye hoary hairs go down. 
In gladness to the grave ! 

And as the parting beams of day, 

On mountain-snows reflected play. 
And tints of roseate lustre shed ; 
Thus, on the snovi? that crowns thy head, 
May joy, with evening planet, shed 
His mildest ray ! 

August 18th, 1809. 



THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS. 



Sweets of the wild ! that breathe and bloom. 
On this lone tower, this ivied wall ; 

Lend to the gale a rich perfume. 
And grace the ruin in its fall ; 



Though doom'd, remote Irom careless eye, 
To smile, to flourish, and to die. 

In solitude sublime, 
Oh ! ever may the spring renew 
Your balmy scent and glowing hue, 

To deck the robe of time ! 

Breathe, fragrance ! breathe, enrich the air, 
Though wasted on its wing unknown ! 

Blow, flow'rets ! blow, though vainly fair, 
Neglected and alone ! 

These flowers that long withstood the blast, 

These mossy towers are mouldering fast, 
While Flora's children stay — 
To mantle o'er the lonely pile. 
To gild Destruction with a smile, 
And beautify Decay ! 

Sweets of the wild ! uncultured blowing, 
Neglected in luxuriance glowing; 
From the dark ruins frowning near. 
Your charms in brighter tints appear, 
And richer blush assume ; 
You smile with softer beauty crown'd, 
Whilst all is desolate around. 

Like sunshine on a tomb ! 

Thou hoary pile, majestic still. 

Memento of departed fame ! 
While roving o'er the moss-clad hill, 

I ponder on thine ancient name ! 

Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep. 
That here, so oft, have shone supreme ; 

While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep, 
That vanish'd is the golden dream ! 

Where are the banners, waving proud, 
To kiss the summer-gale of even — 

All purple as the morning-cloud, 

All streaming to the winds of Heaven ? 

Where is the harp, by rapture strung, 
To melting song, or martial story ? 

Where are the lays the minstrel sung, 
To loveliness, or glory ? 

Lorn echo of these mouldering walls, 
To thee no festal measure calls ; 
No music through the desert halls, 
Awakes thee to rejoice ! 

How still they sleep ! as death profound, 
As if, within this lonely round, 
A step — a note — a whispefd sounds 
Had ne'er aroused thy voice ! 

Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dymg, 
Thou hear'st the foliage waving, sighing : 
But ne'er again shall harp or song. 
These dark deserted courts along. 

Disturb thy calm repose ; 
The harp is broke, the song is fled, 
The voice is hush'd, the bard is dead ° 
And never shall thy tones repeat, 
Or lofty strain, or carol sweet, 

With plaintive close ! 



Proud Castle ! though the days are flown, 

Wlicn once thy towers in glovy shone ; 

When music through thy turrets rung-, 

Wlien banners o'er thy ramparts hung, 

Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone, 

Stern Desolation rear his throne ; 

And Silence, deep and awful, reign. 

Where eeho'd once the elioral strain ; 

Yet oi\, dark Ruin ! lingering here. 

The Muse will hail thee with a tear ; 

Here when the moonlight, quiv'ring, beams, 

And through the fringing ivy streams. 

And softens every shade sublime, 

And mellows every tint of Time — 

Oh ! here shall Contemplation love, 

Unseen and undisturb'd, to rove ; 

And bending o'er some mossy tomb. 

Where Valour sleeps, or Beauties bloom, 

Shall weep for Glory's transient day. 

And Grandeur's evanescent ray ! 

And list'ning to the swelling blast, 

Shall wake the Spirit of the Past, 

Call up the forms of ages fled. 

Of warriors and of minstrels dead; 

Who sought the field, who struck the lyre, 

With all Ambition's kindling fire ! 

Nor wilt thou. Spring ! refuse to breathe 

Soft odours on this desert air ; 
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath. 

And fringe these towers with garlands fair 

Sweets of the wild, oh ! ever bloom. 

Unheeded on this ivied wall! 
Lend to the gale a rich perfume. 

And grace the Ruin in its fall ! 

Thus, round Misfortune's holy head 
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread ; 
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, 
She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving srnile I 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



Fair Gratitude ! in strain sublime. 

Swell high to Heaven thy tuneful zeal ; 

And, hailing this auspicious time,' 
Kneel, Adoration ! kneel I 

CHORUS. 

For lo! the day, th' immortal day. 
When Mercy's full, benignant ray, 
Chased every gathering cloud away. 

And pour'd the noon of liglit! 
Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing. 
While from thine eye the tear is flowing. 

Pure, warm, and bright ! 

'T was on this day, oh, Love Divine ! 

The Orient Star's efTulgence rose; 
Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign 

Shall never never close ! 



CHORUS. 

Messiah ! be thy name adored. 

Eternal, high, redeeming Lord ! 

By grateful words be antiiems pour'd ! 

Emanuel ! Prince of Peace ! 
This day, from Heaven's empyreal dwelling. 
Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling. 

Bade discord cease ! 

Wake the loud paaan, tune the voice. 
Children of heaven and sons of earth ! 

Seraphs and men, exult, rejoice. 
To bless the Saviour's birth ! 

CHORUS. 

Devotion ! light thy purest fire ! 
Transport! on eherub-wing aspire! 
Praise ! wake to Him thy golden lyre, 

Strike every thrilling chord ! 
While at the Ark of Mercy kneeling, 
We own thy grace, reviving, healing, 

Redeemer ! Lord ! 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given. 
To light the wilderness with beams of heaven ? 
To soothe our cares, and through the world diffusa 
Their temper'd sunshine, and celestial hues ? 
Those pure delights, ordain'd on life to throw 
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know ? 
Say, do they grace Ambition's regal throne. 
When kneeling myriads call the world his own? 
Or dwell with Lux'ry, in th' enchanted bowers, 
Where taste and wealth exert creative powers ? 

Favour'd of Heaven I O Genius! are they thine, 
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine 
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way, 
'Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day? 
No! sacred joys ! 'tis yours to dwell enshrined. 
Most fondly cherish'd, in the purest mind ; 
To twine with flowers, those loved, endearing ties, 
On earth so sweet — so perfect in the skies ! 

Nursed on the lap of solitude and shade. 
The violet smiles, embosom'd in the glade: 
There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, 
Gem of seclusion ! treasure of the vale ! 
Thus, fiir retired from life's tumultuous road, 
Domestic Bliss has fix'd her calm abode. 
Where hallow'd Innocence and sweet Repose 
May strew her shadowy patii with many a rose: 
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky 
The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye. 
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear. 
While viewless angels wave their pinions near 
Thus, while around the storms of Discord ro,i, 
Borne, on resistless wing, from pole to pole ; 
While War's red lightnings desolate tije ball,, 
And thrones and empires in destruction fall; 
iTIicn calm as evening on the silvery wave, 
[When the wind slumber.s in the ocean cave. 



[1= 



55b 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest, 
Her empire Home! — her throne, Affection's 
breast ! 

For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms, 
And softer sunshine every scene illumes, 
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze, 
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas ; 
When Summer waving her creative wand. 
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand ; 
Or Autumn's pencil sheds, with magic trace, 
O'er fading loveliness, a moonlight grace ; 
Oh \ still for her, through JMature's boundless 

reign. 
No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain ; 
While mental peace, o'er every prospect bright 
Throws mellowing tints, and harmonizing light ! 
Lo ! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime, 
Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime. 
Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high, 
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky ! 
And high through darkness rears his giant-form. 
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm ! 
Yet then, when blootn and sunshine are no more, 
And the wild surges foam along the shore; 
Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene. 
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green ! 
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade, 
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade ! 
Clear through the day, her light around thee glows, 
And gilds the midnigiit of thy deep repose ! 
— Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection's hand. 
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band ! 
Where pure and bright, the social ardours rise. 
Concentring all their holiest energies ! 
When wasting toil has dimm'd the vital flame. 
And every power deserts the sinking frame; 
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores 
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores I 
Thus, when oppress'd with rude, tumultuous cares, 
To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs; 
Stili to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, 
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies ! 

Bower of repose ! when torn from all we love ; 
Through toil we struggle, or through distance 

rove ; 
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar. 
Thee, our bright vista ! thee, our magnet star ! 
And from the martial field, the troubled sea, 
Unfetter'd thought still roves to bliss and thee ! 

When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die. 
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh ; 
Wide o'er the world, when Peace and Midnight 

reign, 
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main ; 
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, 
'Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep! 
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound. 
All heaven — and sea — and solitude — around ! 
Tlien, from the lonely deck, the silent helm. 
From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm ; 
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined. 
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, 



Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career, 
To the loved scene, so distant, and so dear! 

Lo ! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave, 
And Danger frowns — the monarch of the wave 
Lo ! rocks and storms the striving bark repel. 
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell 

Child of the ocean ! is thy bier the surge. 
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge ? 
Yes ! thy long toils, thy weary conflict 's o'er, 
No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more ! 
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife, 
The struggling agony for death or life ; 
E'en then thy mind, embitt'ring every pain, 
Retraced the image so beloved — in vain ! 
Still to sweet Home, thy last regrets were true, 
Life's parting sigh — the murmur of adieu ! 

Can war's dread scenes the hallow'd ties efface, 
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance 

chase ? 
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy 
The loved impression of domestic joy ? 

Ye dayjight dreams ! that cheer the soldier s 

breast^ 
In hostile climes with spells benign and blest ; 
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray, 
O'er the long march, through Desolation's way ; 
Oh ! still ye bear him from th' ensanguined plain, 
Armour's bright flash, and Victory's choral strain 
To that loved Home, where pure affection glows. 
That shrine of bliss ! asylum of repose ! 
When all is hush'd — the rage of combat past, 
And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast; 
When the warm throb of many a heart is o'er, 
And many an eye is closed to wake no more ; 
Lull'd by the nighl-wind, pillow'd on the ground, 
(The dewy deathbed of his comrades round I) 
While o'er the slain the tears of midnight weep, 
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep ! 
E'en then, soft visions, hov'ring round, portray 
The cherish'd forms that o'er his bosom sway; 
He sees fond transport light each beaming face. 
Meets the warm tear-drop, and the long embrace! 
While the sweet welcome vibrates through his 

heaft, 
" Hail, weary soldier ! — never more to part !" 

And lo ! at last, released from every toil, 
He comes ! — the wanderer views his native soil ! 
Then the bright raptures, words can never speak, 
Flash in his eye, and mantle o'er his cheek ! 
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing 

prayer, 
Implored for him, each guardian-spirit's care ; 
Who, for his fate, through sorrow's ling'ring year, 
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear 
In that blest moment, all the past forget — 
Hours of suspense, and vigils of regret ! 

And, oh ! for him, the child of rude alarms, 
Rear'd by stern danger in the school of arms ; 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



SST 



How sweet to chang-e the war-song's pealing- note, 
For woodluiid-soiintls, in suninicr-uir tliat Hoat ! 
Tlirougli vales of peace, o'er mountain wilds to 

roam, 
And breathe his native gales, that whisper — 

" Home 1" 

Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, 
Charms of existence ! angel sympathies ! 
Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen ! 
And »uide her votaries through a fairy scene. 
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours, 
With mirth and music, in Arcadian bowers; 
Though gazing nations hail the fiery ear. 
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar ; 
While Fame's loud poean bids his heart rejoice, 
And every life-pulse vibrates to lier voice ; — 
Yet from your source, alone, in mazes bright, 
Flows tiie full current of serene delight ! 

On Freedom's wing, that every wild explores. 
Through realms of space, th' aspiring eagle soars! 
Darts o'er the clouds, exulting to admire. 
Meridian glory — on her throne of fire I 
Bird o'" tlie Sun! his keen unwearied gaze, 
Hails the full moon, and triumphs in the blaze; 
But soon, descending from his height sublime. 
Day's burning fount, and light's empyreal clime; 
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest, 
'Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest ! 

Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career. 
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere; 
And proudly waving, in his gifted hand. 
O'er Fancy's worlds, Invention's plastic wand ; 
Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys 
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays ! 
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend, 
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend ; 
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur 

fraught. 
Dilate the noblest energies of thought ;) 
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined, 
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind. 
At length he flies, to that serene retreat. 
Where calm and pure, the mild affections meet; 
Ernbosom'd there, to feel and to impart 
The softer pleasures of the social heart ! 

Ah ! weep for those, deserted and forlorn, 
From every tie, by fate relentless torn ; 
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle, 
Mark'd with no step, uncheer'd by human smile; 
Heart-siek and faint the shipwreck'd wanderer 

stand, 
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand ! 
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main, 
And weep — and pray — and linger — but in vain I 

Thence, roving wild through many a depth of 
shade, 
Where voice ne'er echo'd, footstep never stray'd ; 
He fondly seeks, o'er clilfs and deserts rude. 
Haunts of mankind, 'midst realms of solitude! 
And pauses olt, and sadly hears alone, 
TJie wood's deep sigh, tlie surge's distant moan I 
49* 



All else is hush'd ! so silent, so profounri, 
As if some viewless power, presiding round, 
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, 
Had spread for ages the repose of death ! 
Ah ! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep, 
Lives but to watch — and watches but to weep 1 
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise, 
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies ! 
Far from his cherish'd friends, his native shore, 
Banish'd from being — to return no more; 
There must he die ! — within that circling wave, 
That lonely isle — his prison and his grave ! 

Lo ! through the waste, the wilderness of snowSj 
With fainting step, Siberia's exile goes ! 
Homeless and sad, o'er many a polar wild. 
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled ; 
Where frost and silence hold tlieir despot-reign, 
And bind existence in eternal chain ! 
Child of the desert ! pilgrim of the gloom ! 
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tornb ! 
While on thy faded clieek, the arctic air 
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair ! 
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day 
In that stern clime, to slied its parting ray; 
Not that fair nature's loveliness and light. 
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight ; 
Ah ! not for this, far, far beyond relief. 
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief; 
But that no friend of kindred heart is there, 
Thy v/oes to mitigate, thy toils to share ; 
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage 
The stormy trials of thy ling'ring age ; 
No smile of tenderness, with angel power. 
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution's hour; 
For this alone, despair, a withering guest. 
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast. 
Yes! there, e'en there, in that tremendous clime 
Where desert grandeur frowns, in pomp sublime, 
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night, 
In all his wild magnificence of might; 
E'en tJiere, afl^ection's hallow'd spell might pour 
The light of heaven around th' inclement shore ! 
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshina 

graced. 
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced. 
Teach the pure heart, with vital fires to glow, 
E'en 'midst the world of solitude and snow ! 
The halcyon's charm, thus dreaming fictions 

feign. 
With mystic power, could tranquillize the main; 
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow, sleep. 
And peace and silence brood upon the I'eep I 

And thus. Affection, can thy voice compose 
The stormy tide of passions and of woei- ; 
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease, 
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace I 

Oh ! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien 
Wan, yet resign'd, and hopeless, yet serene ! 
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase 
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face 
That faded eye was diinm'd with many a rare 
Tliose wa"ing locks were silver'd by despa ' 



558 



MRS. HEMANS' WORKS. 



Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm, 
Assuag-e his pangs, his wounded spirit calm ! 
He, a sad emigrant ! condemn'd to roam, 
In life's pale autumn, from his ruin'd home; 
Has borne the shock of Peril's darkest wave, 
Where joy — and hope — and fortune — found a 

grave ! 
'T was his, to see Destruction's fiercest band, 
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land, 
An'd roll, triumphant, on their blasted way, 
In fire and blood — the deluge of dismay ! 
Unequal combat raged on many a plain. 
And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain ! 
Ah ! gallant exile ! nobly, long, he bled. 
Long braved the tempest gath'ring o'er his head ! 
Till all was lost ! and horror's darken'd eye 
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die ! 

Ah ! gallant exile ! in the storm that roll'd 
Far o'er his country, rushing uncontroll'd ; 
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest 

bloom 
Torn by the blast — were scatter'd on the tomb I 
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife. 
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life ; 
Yet one was spared ! and she, whose filial smile 
Can soothe his wanderings, and his tears beguile ; 
E'en then, could temper, with divine relief, 
The wild delirium of unbounded grief; 
And whisp'ring peace, conceal, with duteous art, 
Pier own deep sorrows in her inmost heart ! 
And now, though time, subduing every trace. 
Has mcllow'd all, he never can erase ; 
Oft will the wanderer's tears in silence flow, 
Still sadly faithful to remember'd woe ! 
Then she, who feels a father's pang alone, 
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,) 
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh. 
To chase the image that awakes the sigh ! 
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise, 
To brighter visions of celestial days ! 
And speak of realms, where Virtue's wing shall 

soar 
On eagle-plume — to wonder and adore ; 
And Friends, divided here, shall meet at last. 
Unite their kindred souls — and smile on all the 

past ! 

Yes ! we may hope, that nature's deathless ties, 
Renew'd, refined — shall triumph in the skies ! 
ileart-soothing thought ! wliose loved, consoling 

power 
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection's hour ; 
Uh ! still be near, and bright'ning through the 

gloom. 
Beam and ascend ! the day-star of the tomb ! 
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved, 
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved. 

Lc ' by the couch where pain and chill disease. 
In every vein, the ebbing life-blood freeze ; 
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay, 
Lite's closing lesson — in its dawning day ; 
Where beauty's rose is with'ring ere its prime, 
LVrhanged by sorrow — and unsoil'd by time; 



There, bending still, with fix'd and sleepless eye, 
There, from her child, the mother learns to die; 
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace 
Of ling'ring sickness in the faded face ; 
Through tlie sad night, when every hope is fled, 
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer's bed ; 
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare 
The spoiler's hand — the blight of death, is there , 
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame, 
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame; 
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray. 
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering, fades away 
Faint beats the hov'ring pulse, the trembling 

heart, 
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part I 

'T is past, the struggle and the pang are o'er, 
And life shall throb with agony no more ; 
While o'er the wasted form, the features pale, 
Death's awful shadows throw tlieir silvery veil : 
Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere, 
Though poignant sufF'ring mark'd thy short ca- 
reer ; 
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes. 
And hush thy sighs — an angel of repose ! 

But who may charm 7ier sleepless pang to rest. 
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast ? 
And, while she bends in silence o'er thy bier. 
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear ? 
Visions of hope, in loveliest hues array'd. 
Fair scenes of bliss! by fancy's hand portray'd; 
And were ye doom'd with false, illusive smile, 
With flatt'ring promise, to enchant awhile? 
And are ye vanish'd, never to return, 
Set in the darkness of the mould'ring urn ? 
Will no bright hour departed joys restore ? 
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more? 
Behold no more the soul-illumined face. 
The expressive smile, the animated grace ? 
Must the fair blossom, wither'd in the tomb. 
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom ? 
Descend, blest faith ! dispel the hopeless care. 
And chase the gath'ring phantoms of despair; 
Tell, that the flower, transplanted in its morn. 
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn ; 
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews, 
The full perfection of immortal hues ; 
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies. 
By death released, the parent spirit flies ; 
There shall the child, in anguish mourn'd so long, 
With rapture hail her, 'midst the cherub threng; 
And guide her pinion, on exulting flight. 
Through glory's boundless realms, and worlds 
of living light. 

Ye gentle spirits of departed friends ! 
If e'er on earth your buoyant wing descends; 
If, with benignant care, ye linger near, 
To guard the objects in existence dear; 
If hov'ring o'er, ethereal band ! ye view 
The tender sorrows, to your memory true; 
Oh ! in the musing hour, at midnight deep. 
While for your loss affection wakes to weep; 
While every sound in hallow'd stillness lies. 
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs ; 




oil ! then, amidst that holy calm be near, 
Brcatlie your li'.'-iit wliisper softly in licr ear; 
With secret spells, her wounded mind eompose, 
And chase the fuilhful tear — for you that flows ; 
Be near ; when moonlight spreads the charm you 

loved, 
O'er scenes where once your eartlilij footstep 

roved : 
Then, while she wanders o'er the sparkling dew, 
Throug-h glens and wood-paths, once endear'd by 

you, 
And fondly lingers in your fav'rite bowers, 
And pauses oft, recalling former hours; 
Then wave your pinion o'er each well-known vale, 
Float in the moonheam, sigh upon the gale; 
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell, 
Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell ; 
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her 

soul. 
With soli; enchantments and divine control ! 
Be near, sweet guardians ; watch her sacred rest. 
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest; 
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise, 
Return'd in dreams, to bless her mental eyes; 
Efface the mem'ry of your last farewell. 
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell; 
The sweet communion of the past renew. 
Reviving former scenes, array'd in softer hue. 

Be near when death, in virtue's brightest hour, 
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power; 



Oh ! then, transcending Fancy's loveliest dream, 
Then let your forms unvcil'd, around her beam; 
Then wall the vision of unclouded light, 
A burst of glory, on her closing sight ; 
Wake from the harp of heaven th' immortal 

strain. 
To hush the final agonies of pain ; 
With rapture's flame, the parting soul illume, 
And smile triumphant through the shadowy 

gloom ! 
Oh ! still be near, when, darting into day, 
Th' exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay ; 
Be yours to guide her flutt'ring wings on high, 
O'er many a world, ascending to the sky; 
There let your presence, once her earthly joy, 
Though dimm'd with tears, and clouded with 

alloy. 
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore, 
Where death shall sever kindred hearts no 

more. 

Yes ! in the noon of that Elysian clime. 
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death or time ; 
Where mind's bright eye, with renovated fire, 
Still beam«on glories — never to expire ; 
Oh ! there th' illumined soul may fondly trust. 
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust. 
Those mild aflPections, whose consoling light 
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night, 
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow. 
Exalting rapture — -not assuaging woe I 



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10 : 



J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. 

THE LIFE Ai^D OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENTLEIVIAN. 

COMPRISINO THE HDM0R0U3 ADVENTURES OP 

UNCLE TOBY AND CORPORAL TRIM. 

Beautiftilly Illustrated by Uarley. Stitcbed* 



A SENTIMENTAL JOUENEY. 

BY L. STERNE. 

IllMstrated as above by Darley« Stitcliedi 

The beauties of this author are so well known, and his errors in style and expression so few and 
far between, that one reads with renewed dehght his delicate turns, &c. 

THE LIFE OF GENERAL JACKSON, 

WITH A LIKENESS OP THE OLD HERO. 
One volume, 18mo. 



LIFEOFPAULJOS\IES. 

In one volume, 12mo. 
WITH ONE HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS. 

BY JAMES HAMILTON. 

The work is compiled from liis orifnnal )ot:mals and correspondence, and includes an account of 
his services in the American Revolution, and in the war between the Russians and Turks m the 
Black Sea. There is scarcely any Naval Hero, of any age. who combined in his character so much 
of the adventurous, skilful and darms.as Paul Jones. The incidents of his life are almost as start- 
ling and absorbing as those of romance. His achievements during the American Revolution — the 
fight between the Bon Homme Richard and Serapis, the most desperate naval action on record — 
and the alarm into which, with so small a force, he threw the coasts of England and Scotland — are 
matters comparatively well known to Americans ; but the incidents of his subsequent career have 
been veiled m obscurity, which is dissipated by this biography. A book like this, narrating the 
actions of such a man, ought to meet with an extensive sale, and become as popular as Robinson 
Crusoe in fiction, or Weems's Life of Marion and Washington, and similar books, in fact. It con- 
tains 400 pages, has a handsome portrait and medallion likeness of Jcnes, and is illustrated with 
numerous original wood engravings of naval scenes and distinguished men with whom he was 
familiar. 

WASHING-TON, 

ATTD THE 

GENERALS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 

Two volumes complete in one. With finely Engraved Portraits. 

NAPOLEON, 

AND THE 

MARSHALS OP THE EMPIRE. 

Two volumes in one. With finely Engraved Portraits. 

THE YOUNG CHORISTER; 

A Collection of New and Beautiful Tunes, adapted to the use of Sabhath-Schools, from some of the 
most distingaished composers ; together with many of the author's compositions. 

EDITED BY MINARD W. WILSON. 



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